


Elementary, Miss Carter

by the_mixed_up_files_of_me



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drug Addiction, F/M, I only started writing well by chapter 14 so please dear god just skip to there, Lots of implied things but nothing shown, Modern!Young!Peggy Carter, Mystery, Slow Burn, everyone suffers a lot, in character romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-06-09 02:52:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 99,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6886480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_mixed_up_files_of_me/pseuds/the_mixed_up_files_of_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the modern day, young Peggy Carter heads back to London after leaving S.H. I. E.L.D. She accepts a case that has her cross paths with Sherlock Holmes, an eccentric detective. Her curiousity is caught and she joins him to solve crimes. She's thrown into a mix of agents, detectives, murder and one man far more dangerous than she could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Kensington Case Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! For clarification, the 'chapters' are titled as 'cases', each with two parts. This is a continuing story.* Thank you for reading! :)
> 
> *My writing style changes drastically for the better by chapter 14. Seriously, just skip ahead to that chapter. You'll be doing yourself a favour.

  
The cold rain pelted the pavement as a pair of navy high heels clicked through the puddles. A car pulled along side, catching the woman's attention.  
The window rolled down and Edwin Jarvis peered out at the woman walking.  
"Miss Carter, please allow me to drive you."  
"Are you following me?" She incredulously asked, pausing.  
"Why, yes, I am. I believe my services are needed," he said.  
"No, they are not. I am fine walking."  
"Miss—"  
"I. Am. Fine."  
"You are in danger," he persisted,  
"Not really," Peggy Carter calmly said. "However, if I keep standing here, my chances do increase. So I will be in my way, and you will turn the car around. You will drive home, park the car, and go have tea with Ana. Final."  
Jarvis sighed, his breath misting in the cold air. Peggy knew she won him over.  
"If you are sure."  
"Positive."  
Jarvis hesitated.  
"I'll be at Scotland Yard if you need anything, or anything happens," Peggy reminded him. "Now, I must be off."  
She clicked off, without looking back.

*************

Margret 'Peggy' Carter had only recently moved back to London. She had been enjoying life in New York City, but 'things happen'. When people asked her about her sudden move, she simply replied. "I have some ghosts there I'd like to leave in New York", and laughed. Everyone let the subject drop.  
It was comforting to be back in London, where she had grown up. She moved in with Ana and Jarvis, which Peggy found to be more enjoyable than she anticipated.  
Pleasant. That was all it was. Life was pleasant.  
Yes, a peaceful break from what had happened in New York was enjoyable, but Peggy craved work more and more. She wasn't MADE for life this monotonous.  
"You could go back to agent work," pointed out Ana Jarvis, who was gardening one lazy afternoon.  
Peggy, standing aside on the cobblestone sidewalk, watched her Ana plant rosebushes.  
"You know I can't."  
"You could be a teacher."  
"Ha!"  
"I'm serious. You are good with children, highly intelligent, and excelled in all of your classes. You could be a science, English, History or maths teacher, for instance. There is a good need for that in Staffordshire." Ana looked up at her trusted friend.  
"Ana...I missed 70 years of history."  
"Love, I can't control your life. I have learned that the hard way. But please find a job that uses your skill set. I can't have you break anymore things in this house."  
"That was one time..."  
"I cannot have you target practicing shooting on walls!"  
"I needed to finish off the ammo!"  
"If you must 'finish off the ammo' at least shoot a deer or something and get us dinner," Ana promptly replied, burying the base of the rosebushes deep into the soil.  
Peggy let out a gusty sigh. She was dying to go do something. The thrill of the chase, the excitement of deciphering codes...she missed it.  
Peggy swallowed hard and excused herself. She went inside the house and to her bedroom. She wanted to go get an apartment, as she got the vibe she was overstaying her welcome at the Jarvis' but she didn't have an extra penny.  
She walked over to the window and at the passing traffic on the road outside. Those people had lives just like her's now, but they were content with the ordinary monotony of it all.  
Peggy opened her beside drawer and looked at the photo she kept framed and tucked away.  
If there was one person in the world she wanted to honor, it was him. She knew what he would want her to do.  
She exhaled slowly.  
She set the picture back and shut the drawer.  
She reached under her mattress and pulled out her gun.

*************

"Work?"  
"Yes."  
"Have you ever been a detective inspector before?"  
"I have headed government investigations," Peggy replied. "While I am an agent, I have always done investigative work. Zodiac and Leviathan were my biggest detective cases."  
"Oh yes, I do know about those cases. Excellent work. I'll put a word in with my superior about you," Greg Lestrade pulled out a sheet of paper and made a note. "What other experience do you have?"  
"I am a trained agent in all forms of weaponry."  
"Good. Why did you leave?"  
Silence. Lestrade, thinking he asked an innocent question, looked up.  
"It's rather complicated, but it has nothing to do with my work, I assure you," Peggy firmly and quietly said.  
"Right then." He made another note. "I will go talk and see if I can get you a spot. There will be tests and such, soon."  
"Thank you for your time," Peggy said, getting up.  
Sally Donavan opened the door, "Sorry to interrupt but you-know-who's pawn just called. They're at Kensington Street. Dead body."  
"And we weren't told first?!" Snapped Greg, getting up.  
"Well, you know his tendency to not tell us things about crimes," Sally said, her voice pointedly toned.  
"Not right now," Greg said sharply, brushing past her. He returned a second later, remembering that he had Peggy still in there. "You, you can come with us. If you want to be a detective here, get used to this."  
Peggy brushed herself off and got up. Sally stopped her at the door.  
"Just try not to kill him."  
"Who?"  
"Oh, you'll see, believe me."

*************  
The police car pulled up to Kensington Street. One of the houses was taped off. Greg strolled right through, Sally at his heels. Peggy followed, immensely curious. The rain misted her hair as she walked inside.  
The house was the typical stature of a row house. A chandelier hung in each room, the carpets were so lush, Peggy couldn't see her shoes in them. A swirling mahogany staircase cascaded in the middle of the foyer. The usual grandeur of the house was destroyed however, by police tape, dust, dozens of policemen and a general mess. Greg and Sally immediately began speaking to the policemen. Peggy heard distant sobs, as she stepped over a cable rope, into the living room.  
She heard a sharp voice, half yelling at someone, and sobs. Greg and Sally didn't seem to notice, or if they did, they didn't care. All they were doing was getting a police report. Peggy turned to find the source of apparent trauma.  
It didn't take long. She followed the sobs into the kitchen, where a young maid, wrapped in a blanket. A man was yelling at her, his back turned to Peggy.  
"TELL ME WHAT YOU SAW!"  
"I-I d-on't know-w," sobbed the girl.  
"Of course you know, you idiot, just tell me!"  
The girl wailed.  
"Shut up!" Peggy half shouted at the man.  
He turned around and his crystal blue eyes met her chocolate brown eyes. His eyes flicked for a split second for a split second, looking at her critically. He gestured to the girl.  
"You have experience in interrogations, get the girl to speak."  
Peggy was startled. How does he know that? She thought. She didn't show her surprise, of course. She cleared her throat and walked over to the girl.  
"What is your name, love?"  
"Susan," sniffled the girl.  
"Ok, Susan. It's all ok, we know you are innocent," Peggy said. She actually didn't know that or not, but figured it would calm the girl's fears. "Now, what happened? You can trust me."  
Susan pulled herself together. "Last night, I was cleaning the house, and getting ready for bed, as always. I heard a muffled sound upstairs, where the Master sleeps. I went up a few minutes later, and he was dead on the floor, stabbed. I didn't see any open windows or signs of disturbance. It was terrifying." She looked frightened.  
"It's alright now. Scotland Yard will take you somewhere safe," Peggy patted her shoulder and gestured for the girl to leave. She obeyed.  
Peggy turned around and faced the man in the long coat. She had to look up slightly, as he was towering over her, gazing at her intently.  
"Who do you think you are, yelling at a poor girl?" Peggy's voice was cold.  
"Why are you trying to join Scotland Yard?" He asked, totally ignoring her former statement.  
"Pardon?"  
"You are an agent with government experience, yet you chose to be a detective. Something clearly happened to you to be that desperate."  
Peggy felt indignation rise up on her chest. "Who the bloody hell are you?"  
He smirked.  
Peggy glared at him.  
He flipped his coat collar up and headed for the foyer. Peggy followed him, stepping carefully over wires.  
"Where are you going?" Snapped Peggy. If there was one thing she hated, it was being ignored. All her life she was ignored and this man was only adding to her general distaste in men.  
"Investigate. That's what I do," he shortly replied, calmly mounting the stairs from the foyer to the upstairs. He went up two stairs and turned around. "You're coming with me."  
"Excuse me?"  
"You. You are coming with me." He turned around and went up the stairs.  
"What makes you think I'd follow you?" Peggy wanted to know.  
"Because you're an addict in need of a fix."  
Peggy stared after him a moment, feeling confusion and a touch of curiosity. She had never met someone quite so...unusual. Nothing about him made sense. She DID want to investigate, even if it meant being around this utter wanker. She sighed and went up the stairs.

*************  
The crime scene was taped off. The man strolled right through, as if he owned the entire crime scene.  
The room where the murder must have taken place, was a luxurious bedroom. Any signs of its former glory was heavily tinted by the dust and muss that had accumulate in the room. The man, without turning around, lifted the police tape for Peggy to walk under.  
Now inside the room, she got to have a good look at it. She ran her finger across the desk that was next to the door. A heavy layer of dust was on it, and must have been even before the murder. Perhaps the maid wasn't as good as she said she was.  
An obnoxious looking man appeared in the doorway. He spoke directly to the man.  
"Who is SHE?" He sharply asked.  
Peggy gave him a glacial look.  
"'SHE' is with me," the man shortly replied. "Unless you have something to say of some sort of intelligence, give yourself the dignity of leaving now, Anderson."  
"Or?"  
"I'll phone Lestrade and tell him what a nuisance you are to me."  
Anderson sighed and turned to go.  
"Shut the door behind you," ordered the man in the long coat, not looking up.  
Anderson rather slammed the door, than shut it.  
"What was all that about?" Peggy wanted to know.  
"Hm?" The man was seemingly doing something trivial, just staring at the windowsill.  
"You shut that man down pretty quick. Rival?"  
The man actually laughed. "If there is one thing you should know about me, it is that I filter unimportant information and people out of my mind. If I didn't, I'd be in a permanent coma."  
"That man, Anderson, is unimportant?"  
"Extremely. An unnecessary evil of the Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, Lestrade has mercy and keeps him as a pet."  
Peggy didn't press further. She went to the windowsill that he was staring at.  
"Repainted," she remarked. She touched it. The white paint was at it beneath her fingers. She sniffed her fingertip. "Only a couple of hours ago, actually. Still smells fresh."  
The man was staring blankly at it.  
"Are you alright?" Peggy asked, bewildered.  
No reply.  
She touched his arm and he looked like he was startled awake.  
"Alright? Me? Yes I'm fine. Thinking. There are 8 possible explanations and we are going to test theory 1 now."  
He brushed past her and to the top of the staircase.  
"Anderson, make yourself useful for once and go get the maid!" He called. He went back in to Peggy. Anderson brought Susan upstairs again.  
"Anderson, leave, I can't think when you are breathing."  
"Oh for the love of God..."  
"NOW."  
Anderson drew in a sharp breath, casting a disapproving glare across the room, before leaving.  
Peggy gestured to the window, and Susan obediently came over.  
"Who does maintenance on the house?"  
"N-no one. The Master used to call a business to do his work."  
"Hm? Well, this window has been painted in the past 5 hours, and your Master has been dead for 9. Doesn't quite add up does it?" The man remarked.  
Susan was silent.  
"Of course there is the possibility that he died, and felt so morbidly moved to make sure his window was painted, that he came back long enough to call someone to do it," he went on.  
Susan shook her head. "I say, I don't know! You have to believe me."  
"I don't."  
Peggy looked between the girl and the man, thinking. Surely there was a method behind his madness.  
"Please, Sir, I promise, I loved the Master as my own father," wept Susan. "I have no reason to kill him, I swear!"  
"Thank you," he suddenly said. "Come, along Miss," he added, referring to Peggy.  
Peggy wanted to protest but there was something so interesting about all of this, and now her curiosity was spiked. She was accustomed to dealing with difficult people with her line of work, so she patiently sighed and followed him.

*************

The man briskly walked out to the street outside the crime scene, and hailed a cab. Peggy joined him on the sidewalk. He opened the cab door, and gestured for Peggy to get in.  
"221B Baker Street," he ordered to he driver and shut the cab door on her. Peggy immediately got out, even while the car started to move. She ignored he cab driver's irritated exclamation. Peggy stopped the man.  
"I don't even know who you are, and you expect me to just randomly go wherever you send me?" Peggy demanded.  
He almost smiled slightly. He held out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."  
Peggy unclenched her jaw slightly. The name did sound familiar. "Margret Carter."  
She slid her fingers into his, for a brisk handshake.  
"221B is my flat, and if you want to find the murderer, you might want to join me there."  
A pause. Anything was better than going back to her own home now.  
"I'll be there."

*************

Peggy entered the front door of 221B Baker Street, and was greeted by a cheerful older lady.  
"Hello, sweetie! I'm Mrs. Hudson. Come to take a room?"  
"Uh, no actually I'm here for Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Dear me, are you a client?" The older woman set down her duster.  
"No, just...visiting," Peggy replied.  
"Sherlock isn't home yet, but John is. Right upstairs," she said pointing up the staircase. "I'll go make you a cuppa."  
She smiled and bustled off. Peggy thanked her and mounted the stairs. Well worn. Hundreds of people look like they crossed these stairs.  
She found door 221B and knocked.  
A man in his 30s, pleasant looking, with an infectious smile, opened the door.  
"You a client, Miss—?"  
"Margret Carter. You must be John?"  
"Yes, that'd be right. I'm afraid we are a bit tied up with a case at the moment so I don't know if we'll be able to take yours yet," John said.  
"Oh! I don't have a case. I was asked to come here by Sherlock," Peggy explained.  
"Sherlock spoke to a woman...this truly is novel," John murmured aloud. "Course, come in," He said, opening the door for her.  
Peggy came in and took in the sights around her. 221B was one of those flats that was a delightful mix of compartmentalised and a mess. Something was incredibly cosy and snug about it.  
"You live here?" She asked John.  
"Somewhat. I technically have the flat across the hall, but I basically live here." John sat down in a chair next to the fireplace. There were two chairs, opposite each other. Peggy primly sat down in the one across from John.  
"May I ask why there is a skull on the fireplace mantel?" Peggy glanced up at it, amused.  
"Yeah, it's a 'friend' of Sherlock's."  
"Sherlock...He's a bit...odd?" Peggy tactfully commented.  
"A sociopath, you mean?"  
Peggy laughed.  
"Yeah, he is quite daft. But he's not so bad once you get to know him," John answered.  
"He was yelling at one of the young girls at the crime scene," remarked Peggy, interested to hear John's explanation.  
He wasn't surprised. "Sherlock does that sometimes. He says that people's minds are so cluttered with unnecessary information, that you have to use a verbal blunt instrument to get important things out."  
Mrs. Hudson came in with a tray of tea and handed John and Peggy each a cup.  
"How's Mary, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked.  
John gave her a look. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.  
"You both ought to stop this domestic right away. Not good for you both. You both should talk thing out. I know my husband and I ALWAYS talked things out when they came up—"  
"Your husband was also charged with double murder, so I honestly don't think you are the prime example of matrimony," John quipped.  
Mrs. Hudson huffed. "Really John, I'm not your mother, but I am disliking that attitude."  
"Mrs. Hudson...leave. Now. Please."  
She made a sound of disgruntlement and walked out.  
Peggy smiled. "She's the housekeeper?"  
Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the door. "Not their housekeeper!"  
"Mrs. Hudson, can you dust after we're done here?" John asked her, and winked at Peggy.  
"Fine, but remember, I'm not your housekeeper!" Insisted Mrs. Hudson. Peggy heard her go down the stairs.  
"She really is," John said, with a smile. Peggy returned it, amused by the old lady's sassy personality.  
Seconds after Mrs. Hudson left, Sherlock rushed in.  
"Where were you?" John calmly asked.  
"Out, obviously. Why are you in my chair?" Sherlock asked Peggy.  
"Nice to see you too," Peggy sarcastically replied.  
"Get any leads?" John asked.  
"8 has been narrowed down to 6." Sherlock untied his navy blue scarf with quick precision.  
"Getting slow in your old age, Sherlock." John smirked.  
Sherlock turned to Peggy, pointedly ignoring John. "Why do you want to work at Scotland Yard?"  
"Why is this your business?" Peggy retorted.  
Sherlock practically removed John from his seat, and sat down across from Peggy. John made a face and went to sit at the desk chair.  
"I have a better offer."  
"Which is?"  
"It's incredibly dangerous, possibly deadly, has you dealing with psychopaths on a daily basis, and I doubt your life will be the same again."  
"Are you trying to deter me?"  
"God no. Trying to recruit you."  
"To work with you?"  
"Yes."  
"And why would I work with you when I can work with Scotland Yard? I want a good reason." Peggy sat back.  
"Well, I am keeping you from working with people like Anderson and Miss Donavan. Which is self explanatory," Sherlock said.  
Peggy was silently considering all her options. There was something so ridiculously fascinating about 221B and the people in it. And she was so—  
"Don't you ever get bored, Miss Carter?" Inquired Sherlock.  
Peggy exhaled. "I'm alright, I assure you."  
"I am more than familiar to the pattern of an addict. John is an addict to enjoying the company of dangerous people, for starts."  
John rolled his eyes.  
"I am an addict to drugs," Sherlock went on.  
Peggy looked over at him, surprised. Sherlock quickly glossed over it.  
"We all need our fixes in different ways. John married an ex assassin. I wear 4 nicotine patches. And you, Miss Carter, are an ex agent, addicted to a certain life style."  
"Speaking of, how DID you know I was an ex agent?" Peggy was now more curious than shocked by anything this man said.  
"Obvious signs. Your calm presence in an ordinarily overwhelming crime scene for most people. Observation of details. Your fingernail on your right hand is purposely shorter than the others, hinting that you may have it trimmed for ease of pulling a trigger. You were unafraid of walking directly into a room where a murder had taken place. And of course, there is the obvious fact that I read about your work in New York with those Avengers people. Which also was how I knew your name on sight." Sherlock's intelligent eyes flicked up and down Peggy.  
She was stunned, but completely fascinated. So this is what it was like to match wits with someone. She looked at John, who's face clearly read that he heard these monologues every day.  
"I did wonder, but clearly you already know," Peggy said. "And I'm sure you knew I was going to say that too."  
He didn't say anything but smiled every so slightly.  
"So, the case. Any good?" John asked.  
"Hm? The case? Oh. Boring."  
"Remind me to confiscate your gun then," John remarked. "Who did it then?"  
A pause.  
"We're having tea in a few hours." Sherlock cleared his throat.  
Peggy was confused by this very sudden conversation change.  
"Well I should hope we would," John commented sarcastically. "Where?"  
"Downstairs. At Speedy's. Miss Carter, you come too."  
"What's tea have to do with anything?" Peggy curiously asked.  
"Oh! Everything."  
He said nothing more and Peggy sat back in the plaid chair, thinking.

*************

Peggy arrived back to the Jarvis' house at two. Ana was preparing dinner in the kitchen.  
"I shan't be home for tea or dinner, Ana," Peggy said, hanging up her coat. "I am just here to change."  
"Have you got a date tonight?" Ana smiled at her.  
"Ha! Not hardly. Just a reservation with a group of people."  
"How late will you be out?" She asked.  
"I'm 29, Ana..."  
"I don't care, when do you come home?"  
"I don't know...Nine?"  
"You rarely stay out that late," commented Ana. "In fact, you haven't gone out at all recently. Why the change?"  
Peggy turned in the doorway. "I need a fix."

  
*************

Her cab to Speedy's pulled up and she got out, met by John.  
"Hello, Margret."  
"Don't call me Margret, that's far too formal. Call me Peggy."  
"Right. Peggy it is."  
"So what IS his plan here?"  
"He's inviting all the suspects for tea," explained John.  
"I doubt thats in any way safe," Peggy said with a short laugh.  
"Well he's never been one to be safe," John said, and his voice sounded a bit off.  
"He's done dangerous things before?" Peggy inquired, her voice lower.  
A moment of brief silence.  
"He would die for his work," John simply replied.  
Peggy cast a glance at him and didn't press further.

*************


	2. The Kensington Case Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, 'mind palace' scenes are divided with lines like this: __________________. Here's the final part of this chapter! :)

Peggy and John went up the stairs to 221B. Sherlock was silently sitting, his hands clasped in front of him.  
"Is he ok?" Whispered Peggy to John.  
"Oh he's fine. Just thinking." John turned and went to pick up the phone but there was a gaping hole in the wall where it had been.  
"Sherlock."  
No answer.  
"Where's the bloody phone?"  
Sherlock opened his eyes briefly.  
"I put it in the microwave, where else would I put it?"  
"Sherlock..." John paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. "You do not just rip a phone out of a wall."  
"It kept ringing."  
John rubbed his forehead for a second, then gave up any further argument. Sherlock closed his eyes again.  
Peggy heard the front door open downstairs and a very familiar accent carried up the stairs.  
"Jarvis?" She called.  
A split second later, Jarvis, a worried mess, entered the apartment.  
"Miss Carter I was most worried! You weren't at Scotland Yard when I phoned. And they gave me the number to here, where they said you might be, and the phone went dead," he panted.  
Sherlock's lips twitched slightly in a smile.  
"Are you alright?" Jarvis went on.  
"I'm fine, Jarvis," Peggy laughed. "Jarvis, meet John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."  
John shook Jarvis' hand, and Sherlock barely acknowledged his existence.  
"Sherlock and John? I read about you in the papers. The Reichenbach case, right?"  
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and he swallowed hard. Peggy looked over at him. A split second later, any signs of distress vanished, and he was stoic again.  
John merely nodded. "Yeah, I hear that one got pretty popular.  
Jarvis turned to Peggy. "Miss Carter, do you need help with anything? Are my services required?"  
"No they are not. Go home to Ana. Please and thank you," Peggy answered.  
Jarvis sighed.  
"I'll walk you downstairs," Peggy said.  
She and Jarvis made their way down the staircase. At the doorway, Jarvis looked at her.  
"How on earth do you know to trust these men? I read about their cases. They are constantly in dangerous situations."  
"Not like you and I haven't been."  
"Did you read about their Reichenbach case?"  
"Afraid not. Only moved here a month ago."  
"You'll change your mind about them," Jarvis said in a low voice.  
Peggy looked at him, chewing the inside of her cheek. He meant no harm, just protection. She was sick of protection.  
"Thank you Jarvis."  
She opened the front door and Jarvis left, resigned.  
Peggy gazed up the stairwell to 221B.

*************

Speedy's was closed off just for this 'tea'. Although Sherlock referred to it as 'catching a criminal over tea'.  
Mrs. Hudson, the owner of it, was setting up a table, as John, Sherlock and Peggy came into the little shop.  
"Joining their escapades are we?" She asked Peggy, with a bright and cheerful smile. Peggy joined her behind the counter.  
Peggy laughed a little. "Not hardly."  
"They could use a little feminine touch to their lives, you know. John and his wife Mary are going through a domestic, Sherlock needs some softening up. I try to help them, but... I'm just their landlady," Mrs. Hudson sighed. She dampened a rag and cleaned off the counter surface.  
Peggy looked over at Sherlock and John who were talking to each other.  
"Best of friends?" She asked.  
"Till the end." Mrs. Hudson smiled at them. "Never seen Sherlock so dedicated to a person before. Not that I can blame him. He has almost died four times just to protect John!" She added.  
Peggy's eyes widened. Four times to almost die for someone.  
"I didn't think he seemed to feel much of anything," admitted Peggy. "At least from what I can tell from a few hours."  
Mrs. Hudson make a tsk tsk sound with her tongue. "His behavior is to be expected, I suppose."  
The front door opened, before Peggy could say anymore, and Susan came in. She had pulled herself together, but she visibly recoiled at the sight of Sherlock. She was followed by a handsome young man.  
"Susan, Jacob, nice to see you here. Have a seat," John invited.  
Susan and Jacob obeyed.  
"It feels wrong to be out and about so soon after..." Susan started to say but stopped herself.  
Peggy came around the counter. "Jacob, I don't think we've had the pleasure."  
Jacob smiled at her charmingly. "Jacob Weathers. You are...?"  
"Margret Carter."  
"Lovely to meet you," he said, obviously eyeing her up and down. It took Peggy self control not to punch him.  
A second later two others came in. A wealthy young woman, Margot, and a brisk businessman, Clark.  
"I will have to be excused early, I have business to attend to about this matter," Clark stated.  
Everyone sat around the table. They all must have known each other; Jacob and Margot were siblings, Susan their maid, and Clark their lawyer. You'd never tell, however, due to their cold civility. They all stared at each other with the suspicion of hunting animals.  
Peggy sat down and glanced at them all briefly, but she kept her eyes fixed on Sherlock. His blue eyes looked around the table and he looked lost in his own world again. John forced some conversation.  
"I offer my condolences about the death," John quickly said.  
"Dreadful." Margot shook her head, but didn't seem particularly upset. Her hand rested on her abdomen.  
"He will be missed," Jacob shortly said.  
Clark just sighed. "His will was a mess he left me with."  
"I hardly think that now is the time to mention that—" Susan started to say.  
"Shut up, you're just the maid. Why is she even here?" Demanded Clark.  
Sherlock met Clark's eyes with a cold stare and said nothing.  
Susan looked like she might cry again. Jacob handed her a Kleenex.  
Mrs. Hudson hurried over and served tea, to break the uncomfortable pause. Peggy added a dash of sugar to her tea and absently swirled it around with a spoon. As she spun the spoon around, it clinking against the side of the cup, she watched everyone quietly.  
"Where were you exactly when Dad died?" Jacob asked Margot suddenly.  
Margot shot him a sudden look. "Why?"  
"Just curious, love."  
"You know where I was. And why are we even talking about this?" Margot demanded. "He's only been dead for a few hours!"  
"What did the autopsy say?" Jacob asked.  
Clark added cream to his tea. "That he was stabbed."  
Another quiet.  
All of a sudden, Sherlock spoke. "We have universally acknowledged the fact that he was murdered, and the highest suspension lies in you all. Most of all, you all know it. Now that that is out there, may we go forth with a civilized interrogation over tea?"  
The general reaction, aside from John and Peggy, was indignation and belligerence.  
"How could you even think that?!" Exclaimed Margot. "Why would I kill my father?"  
Sherlock said nothing in reply but his face conveyed the fact that he knew she probably had many reasons.  
Clark started to get up. "This is outrage. I must excuse myself from this heinous affair."  
"You only are casting more suspicion on yourself, by doing that, so I advice you return to your chair," Sherlock calmly stated.  
Clark sat back down, still very much agitated.  
"John, keep everyone at the table, if you would," directed Sherlock. John nodded.  
Susan spoke up, "Mr. Holmes, you know who did it, don't you?"  
"Naturally."  
"Tell us," Susan asked.  
"Bit too easy, my dear," Sherlock commented. "I wouldn't actually tell you all, because why do you all have any reason to believe me? I'm going to 'show' you."

__________________

The bedroom of the murder. Everyone looked around and there they were, still at the table from Speedy's, but inside the room.  
"Night of the murder. Susan, where were you?"  
"Dusting and getting ready to go. I always do, sir," Susan said.  
"Did you hear any noise?"  
"One thump. I suppose that's when he died?"  
"Possibly."  
Peggy turned around and saw, next to the window, the old man in the wheelchair. She got out of her chair and walked over to him. She winced for a spilt second, realizing that the man was already dead, the kitchen knife stabbed through his chest. Blood stained the shirt. She heard Sherlock come up next to her.  
"What do you see?" he asked.  
"I'm sure you've already seen it," she remarked.  
"More than likely, but I asked your opinion."  
She stepped forward and looked closer. "It wasn't planned." She carefully opened the front of the shirt where the stab wound was. Several scars and cuts were around the actual stab wound. "Brash. The person was weak. It took several tries, no doubt. A women?"  
"That's a possibility."  
"Which leaves Margot and Susan."  
"Yes."  
"It probably was Susan then," Peggy briskly stated. "She was the only one there. It makes the most sense."  
Sherlock nodded, musingly. He walked back to the table and sat down. Peggy followed suit.  
"Let's do some theories now, just to add a little intrigue to an otherwise dull case," Sherlock turned to Margot. "Let's say you did it."  
Margot inhaled sharply. "Are you mad?"  
"You're just getting that now?" Sherlock smirked. "Right. So, you have motive. Your father's money."  
"He's my FATHER!" Margot exclaimed.  
"Murders are typically from relatives. Especially when there is money involved." Sherlock took a sip of tea, totally relaxed. "Let's see...Susan, you were dusting the downstairs, correct?"  
"Yes."  
"You would have heard the front door open, correct?"  
"Yes."  
"So Margot couldn't just walk in, because she's have a witness. She'd have to break in. There was the window, which was the most logical choice. However, how could she climb two stories? Yes, you want this man dead, but you wouldn't go so out of your way as to climb up a house like that. Where were you today, Margot?" He inquired.  
"I was at my husband's," Margot icily replied.  
"Ex?"  
A sigh. "Yes."  
"If I was to call your husband right now, what would he say?"  
"That I was there, of course." She spoke without hesitation. She started to take a sip of tea but stopped herself.  
"I know. And I know you didn't kill him," Sherlock added.  
Margot looked up, stunned.  
"You couldn't. Not when you are talking with your divorced husband about the fact that you are pregnant with his child."  
Margot flinched. "No one is supposed to know about that."  
"I'm not the common lot," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Congratulations, by the way. Hopefully you won't be in jail and will be able to witness it's childhood."  
Margot stared down at the table.  
"Who's next?"  
"Clark?" Suggested Peggy, deeply enjoying this deduction.  
"Hmmm, good idea. Clark," agreed Sherlock.  
Clark was completely furious. "I wouldn't dare to kill one of my clients, or anyone, for that matter."  
"Intermittent tremor in your hand. You were in the army," mused Sherlock. "He does seem it, doesn't he, John?"  
John turned to Clark and studied him. "Corporal. 8 years at least. Shot in the arm, more than likely, effecting nerve damage."  
Clark shrugged. "So, I served in the army?"  
"You just said you wouldn't kill anyone," Peggy said, placidly.  
"I killed the enemies because they endangered the justice of the world," snapped Clark. "I wouldn't kill out of cold blood."  
"But let's just say you would...how would you do it?" Sherlock looked around the room. "You are an expert shot. You could have shot him through the window. But you didn't. You killed people for 8 years, you never would be so slovenly as to do a basic stabbing, in such a way."  
Clark met Sherlock's eyes silently.  
"Next!" Peggy cheerfully said.  
"Jacob."  
Jacob glared at him. "I wouldn't hurt my father."  
"No, but you would protect your sister Margot, at any costs." Sherlock fixed his eyes on Jacob.  
"Growing up with her and just your austere father. You have grown wholeheartedly dedicated to your sister. You've also grown wholeheartedly cold against your father. You know his bitter attitude to the fact that your sister married at such a young age, and then divorced. If he found out that she was pregnant to her divorced husband's child...he would disown her, wouldn't he?"  
Jacob shook his head. "You're a bloody psychopath."  
"High functioning sociopath, do your research," Sherlock answered, smoothly. "It didn't help that you were in love with a girl your father loved, but would never approve of. Isn't that right, Susan?"  
Susan shrank back.  
"Leave her out of this!" Shouted Jacob.  
"I wish I could, but in this exciting drama, the small, insignificant maid plays the most important part of all."  
Peggy smiled down at the table. She knew the method to his madness finally. The way the drama would come full circle.  
"Shall I tell you all how the murder went down?"  
"About time, I'd say," John nodded.  
Sherlock stood up.

__________________

*************

At 221B, three hours later, after the dinner, Peggy sat beside the fireplace, across from Sherlock. John sat in the chair at the desk again.  
"...Margot had a problem, and one person she could trust to tell it. Her brother. He knew what their father would do if he found out. During this time, he was romantically involved with Susan, and knew their father would disown him as well. Jacob has always had resentment and fury built up a against his father, and he had a plan, to take the father out of the picture. He thought that the death of their father would bring peace to Margot, and he could carry on with Susan. Jacob knew that the family lawyer, Clark, used to be an corporal and knew how to kill. Clark thought he had moved on from his old ways, but as you may know, people get addicted to a certain lifestyle." His blue eyes turned to Peggy for a second. "It was all too easy to share his knowledge with Jacob, who told Susan. Jacob couldn't commit the murder, as he would rather have his girlfriend sentenced to jail, than himself. He didn't want to be connected.  
Susan was to play a crucial part. She did the murder, and came up with an alibi. She didn't want to. She had grown completely fond of her Master. She hesitated with the stabbing, not heeding the advice that Jacob passed over to her. She did it madly, for love. She knew what she did was wrong, and that was why she was in shock the next day, when we got to her."  
"What about the window?" Asked John.  
"There was blood all over his shirt, and naturally it got on her hands. She grabbed the windowsill. You saw her mental weakness. The girl just killed a man, she needed to steady herself. She realized her mistake and had it painted over as best she could."  
"Jacob will be charged with murder, Clark as accessory to it, along with Susan. Margot walks free. She never did anything but tell her brother she was pregnant. She suspected it was him behind the murder, but she is innocent."  
Peggy made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Crazy business."  
"Indeed it is."  
Peggy sighed and sank back into the comfortable chair, getting drowsy. Mrs. Hudson poked her head around the door.  
"That nervous little fellow is back, dear," she told Peggy. "He's here to take you home."  
"Right. Of course. Thank you," Peggy said, arousing herself.  
Mrs. Hudson disappeared again.  
Peggy stood up and brushed herself off.  
"Thank you boys for the lovely evening. I think I got my fix now."  
Sherlock smiled knowingly. John shook her hand.  
"Feel free to return," John said. "You are a lovely help."  
"I will."

*************

Peggy walked downstairs and thanked Mrs. Hudson. She was about to leave, when she turned to Mrs. Hudson, who had showed her to the door.  
"Mrs. Hudson?"  
"Yes, dear?"  
"Is it true that 223A is available?"  
Mrs. Hudson smiled.  
"It most certainly is."  
Peggy returned the smile.  
"I'll call you tomorrow then," Peggy said.  
Sherlock was right. We do get addicted to a certain lifestyle.

* End of chapter 1 *

 


	3. The Vanishing Sailors Case Part 1

Peggy sat comfortably on the couch of 221B Baker Street, reading a novel.   
Peggy had adjusted to life at Baker Street quickly. John was right; for some reason you live more in Sherlock's flat than you do your own. She basically just slept in her's across the hall.   
Something about Baker Street had grabbed her, the mystery and eccentricity of it all.  
Life had become anything but ordinary. Every minute something seemed to be happening. People came in and out at all hours, with cases that Sherlock deemed to be redundant. He hadn't accepted a case since the Kensington one, and that was a month ago. At any hour, Sherlock could be doing something strange. He did experiments in his kitchen constantly. He did gun target practice on the wall, preferably in the middle of the night. Peggy learned within two weeks how to sleep with the sound of gun shots going off.   
Finally there was a quiet Saturday afternoon, No clients came running in and out. Peggy finally sat down with a novel to pass the time. Her attention was constantly deviated by Sherlock who was pacing.  
He let out a gusty sigh. Peggy glanced up from her novel.  
"Are you alright?"  
He whirled around. "Do I look alright?"  
"Not really."  
He banged his head against the wall. "I NEED A CASE."  
"Calm down."  
Sherlock flung himself on the couch beside her. "Why won't someone get murdered? I'm bored."  
"Sherlock---"  
"GET ME A CASE!"  
"I'm not just going to go out and murder somebody for you!" Peggy said, half laughing. Sherlock looked so youthful when he was so frustrated, like an impatient child.   
He turned suddenly. "I need one."  
"Sherlock, it's a no." She looked back down at her book.  
"One."  
"One is too many."  
"Peggy..."  
Peggy looked up for her book and her lips formed a slight smile. "That's the first time you've called me Peggy, not 'Miss Carter'."  
Sherlock fixed his gaze on her and his eyes almost softened slightly. Peggy suddenly began to feel incredibly aware of how handsome he looked, his hair a tousled up mess, and his eyes so piercing blue. She felt a strange feeling pass over her, and she swiftly dismissed it.   
Sherlock already was on the next subject. "I need one."  
"Your cigarette usage is appalling, and anyway, I can't get them for you. I flushed them down the toilet," Peggy answered.  
Sherlock made a a sound of agitation. "They help me think."  
"They also help you die," Peggy said shortly. "And they're bad for breathing."  
"Breathing is boring," Sherlock said and slumped in the couch.   
"You need a hobby that doesn't involve dead people," Peggy commented, reading again.  
"Like what?"   
"I don't know...knitting..." Peggy absentmindedly replied. She glanced at her watch. Her peace would have to be cut short, as she had a meeting with Lestrade.   
"I've got to run," Peggy told him, getting up. "Don't kill yourself or anyone else while I'm gone, alright?"  
He sighed and somewhat acknowledged her absence. Peggy rolled her eyes, picked up her purse and left. 

*************  
"So you don't want to work with Scotland Yard?" Lestrade repeated, sitting back in his swivel chair.  
Peggy was in his office, where she had sat a month earlier, asking for the job. Only now, she was declining it.  
"Sherlock and John asked me to work with them," she explained.  
Lestrade gave a short laugh. "I can't blame you. An odd bunch, they both are, but I don't know what I'd do without their expertise. If you ever need a backup job, come back, ok?"  
Peggy nodded and smiled. "Gladly."  
Lestrade smiled. "How's Sherlock doing?"  
"Well, I assume. He says he's bored."  
"I'm not surprised, really. Poor guy," Lestrade remarked.  
"Deceive Inspector, may I ask you something?"  
"'Course."  
"Why is he so....?"  
"Different? Unusual? Unique?"  
"Yes."  
"I don't think anyone knows the real story of how he turned out the way he did, to be honest. I've always wondered that myself. Something about a dog, his brother...and of course his nemesis," Lestrade said, taking a sip of coffee.  
"Nemesis?" Peggy laughed aloud.  
"You haven't heard of him?" Lestrade was genuinely surprised.   
"I only moved here three months ago. I haven't heard much news around here yet," Peggy replied. She was incredibly curious about what this nemesis business was. Thankfully, her agent training taught her how to be charming, and Lestrade had time to kill. "Could you fill me in? Please?" She smiled sweetly.  
Lestrade hesitated. "There is a person...his name is Moriarty."  
Peggy was confused. "Who?"  
Lestrade fidgeted. "He uh, is a serial killer. And a very intelligent one, at that."  
"Alright, so a smart killer...I don't see how that would threaten Sherlock, to be honest. He seems...immortal. I don't know. Unaffected by other humans," Peggy said.  
"Moriarty isn't a human. He's a...shark. The personified devil," Lestrade was at a loss for words, explaining the man. "He is the worst person you will ever hear of."  
Peggy leaned forward a little. "What did he do?" She asked in a low voice.   
Lestrade paused, unsure if to continue. "Killed people for fun. He strapped bombs to John, and he got...Sherlock to 'kill' himself."  
Peggy was stunned, and her chocolate brown eyes widened in shock.  
"He faked his death for two years, just to shake Moriarty's lead," Lestrade said. "He only just returned to Baker Street a few months ago."  
"What happened to Moriarty?" Peggy asked, concerned.   
Lestrade seemed uncomfortable. He looked like he was positively saved when Sally appeared in the doorway.   
"Got a drugs bust you might want to oversee, Sir," she interrupted.  
"On it," he answered, getting up quickly. "Sorry to cut this short, Miss Carter."  
"Thank you for your time," Peggy thanked him, rising herself.  
He put his hand on her arm, on his way out.   
"Don't mention Morairty to Sherlock or John, ok? It's a touchy subject."  
"I won't," Peggy assured him, quietly.  
"Better that way," Lestrade nodded.  
He showed her outside, to the sidewalk.   
Peggy whispered softly to herself, "Moriarty." She knew she'd have to do more research later.

 

*************

Peggy was walking back to Baker Street when she heard the low hum of a car engine coming closer. She turned around and saw a black limousine.   
Her agent training gave her strong instincts when she suspected something might be wrong or there was danger. She heard the limousine pulling up right behind her. She quickly veered down a side street.  
She walked as quickly as she could without running. A tall man started walking down the side street, towards her. Peggy turned around and saw the limousine had blocked the other side of the side street.  
She swallowed hard, but was undaunted. She felt a sudden, terrifying though; did THEY find her?  
There was only one way to know. She walked towards the man, as quickly as she could. Her fingers curled into fists, automatically.   
He was tall and built, with a sidearm. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out that h a was the type that was a threat.   
Peggy forced a smile and came right up in front of him.  
"Hello, sir. May I get through?"  
"Not just yet," he said. He took a step towards her.  
Peggy sprang to action. She kicked him in the shins, causing him to double over. This brought him low enough to punch him. He dropped on he ground. No sooner did she try to run away, she felt a bag slip over her head.

*************

She woke up in a sophisticated office room, on a leather couch. A man behind a mahogany desk, looked over at her when she sat up.  
"Who are you?" She asked, trying to get her bearings.  
"Mycroft Holmes."  
Holmes, Peggy thought. Her foggy memory regained. "Sherlock...?" She managed to say. Her mouth felt dry and thick. How many hours was I out? She thought.   
"My brother. Are you thirsty?"  
"Like I would trust you," Peggy spat. "Your hit men tried to kill me."  
"Actually no, they were just there to make sure you would join me. I know how good you are." He gave her a significant gaze.  
Peggy tried to stand, but decided against it. She was still too out of it.  
"You didn't knock me unconscious, why am I so dizzy?" She wanted to know.  
"They put a bag over your head and when they put you in the car, they gave you a sedative. Not the way I would have have done it, but you were putting up quite a fight. I disagree with it. However I did not know any other way, as I highly doubt you would take an invitation to an undisclosed government office."   
Peggy studied this Mycroft fellow. Tall-ish, odd looking, and clearly intelligent. he had the air of a man who knew things about you that even you didn't know. He fiddled with his wedding ring.   
"You don't have to worry, Agent Carter. I work for the British government. I need your assistance," he stated.  
"So you just drugged and kidnapped me, and now you are asking for help? You really are as unconventional as your brother. If that is your brother." Peggy smoothed her hair and skirt, in attempt to regain her dignity.   
"Unfortunately he is. Neither of us relish this fact." Mycroft sounded tired. "Is he still taking any drugs lately?"  
"I flushed the cigarettes down the toilet," Peggy said, still groggy.   
Mycroft poured her a glass of water and handed it to her. She paused. For all she knew, he could have put another sedative in it.  
"It's perfectly safe, I assure you."  
"I'm an agent, I'm taught to distrust people."   
Mycroft smirked. "Smart girl. You really will be a good influence on my brother, just yet."   
Peggy was parched and decided she could trust this man enough. She took a tiny sip of the water.   
"Since you are working with my brother, I am hopeful you will assist." Mycroft sat back down. "This may help him with his 'boredom'. You do care about him, don't you?"  
Peggy stared at him silently.   
"I thought so." Mycroft sat back in a fancy leather chair. "There is a ship, leaving the Thames tomorrow, and I want you and Sherlock on it."  
"Give me a good reason."  
"There is an assassin on it, and that may prove to be hazardous to the passengers on board," he lightly replied.   
"Alright, so you know there is one, you even know what boat. Why don't you stop him?"  
"We received anonymous hint. No idea who it is, but we highly suspect they are trying to leave the country. If we stop the ship from leaving, clear the passengers, or do anything suspicious, the assassin will know, and we'll lose him or her entirely." Mycroft clasped his hands in front of him, when he said this, like Sherlock sometimes did. "This should appeal to both you and Sherlock."  
Peggy was, in fact, interested.   
"Why don't you ask Sherlock yourself? He's your brother."  
"Sherlock and I have a difficult past. Too many childhood resentments," Mycroft said. "Too many thorns growing between us."  
"I will ask Sherlock about it. May I leave now, or will you drug me again?" She briskly asked.  
Mycroft looked amused. "But of course. A taxi will pick you up outside. Maria will show you out."  
Maria, a tiny brunette, appeared on cue in the doorway. "The cab is ready, Agent Carter."  
Peggy carefully got up to leave.  
"Keep an eye on Sherlock, would you?" Mycroft suddenly asked.   
Peggy paused.   
"I will."

*************

"Clearly you've seen Mycroft," a voice said, greeting Peggy as she entered 221B.   
She froze at the sight of what was going on. He really had taken her advice. He sat in his chair, calm and placid, knitting.  
It took her a moment to resume thinking normally. "Why yes...How...?"  
Sherlock glanced at her. "Everyone walks like that after they've seen him."  
"He really is your brother?" Inquired Peggy.  
She hung up her coat next to Sherlock's in the closet, and sat down the the chair opposite him, as always.  
"Sadly, yes, he is."  
"Does he always kidnap people?" She wanted to know.  
"Ask John, he's a regular hostage of my brother. What did Mycroft want?"  
"He has a case for you." Peggy relaxed into the chair, still slightly lightheaded. How much of a sedative HAD they given her?  
Sherlock, knitting away, made a sound of slight interest.  
"An assassin is leaving the Thames tomorrow, and there is one chance to catch this fellow, clearly," Peggy went on. She watched his face carefully for any sign of curiosity.   
Sherlock was somewhat curious but unfazed. "Alright, so?"  
"We leave tomorrow and go find him."  
Sherlock seemed to zone out for a long moment. Most people would have snapped for him to say something, or ask if he'd heard. Peggy waited, patiently and quietly.  
Sherlock 'came back' to the room. "I'll consider it," he said, and Peggy didn't press further.  
Peggy sat quietly watching him. Sherlock was oblivious, lost in his own private world, and apparently his newly discovered talent for knitting.   
This was a man who had an actual enemy. Peggy found that hard to believe. He seemed so...lofty. Untouched by the world around him, a solitary island, where nothing anyone did would effect him. His eyes, wise and knowing, even at his young age. And his mind...Peggy wondered if even he himself knew what it could do. She had never met a more fascinating, complex, and separate person as he. That string of curiosity had held her here in his company.   
They did this for hours, sometimes. She watched him, or read, while he thought quietly. He didn't even seem to notice her.  
When she first moved to Baker Street, she highly suspected that he, while pleased to see her, did not like company while he thought. John and Mrs. Hudson were often banished outside, because Sherlock repeatedly said, "I can't think when anyone is breathing". Peggy sensed his acute agitation by her near him during his thinking. He had been fairly sure she would just ask questions and interrupt.   
Peggy didn't budge, however. She knew not to ask questions, or say anything. His fondness for her expanded as he realised what an mature young woman she was.  
He silently permitted her to sit while he thought. She was the only one who was allowed to be in the same room as him, during his thinking spells. Even now, she sat quiet and relaxed, not disturbing him. Peggy made for excellent thinking company.   
Sherlock looked over at her, and this time, he watched her. She was gazing at her book, not really reading, just enjoying the peace and silence.  
John had asked him a few days before if he thought Peggy was attractive. John meant it, teasingly, but Sherlock knew that John was actually quite curious. Sherlock had said something absentmindedly, at the time.   
Was she really attractive? Sherlock had never dwelled on any thought like that in his life. He studied her face and after ten minutes, decided she was moderately attractive. What he appreciated the most was her silence and intelligence.  
His mind flickered to Irene Adler. She was the first woman he'd ever noticed or regarded with importance. Peggy reminded him much of her; independent, intelligent, calm, capable.   
Irene had made him feel vulnerable, open. He greatly disliked that. He cast one more fleeting look at Peggy before clearing his mind and adjusting it to the possible case, dismissing any more thoughts on Miss Carter.

*************

"Miss Carter I insist I join you," Jarvis pleaded.  
Peggy had been enjoying dinner with Ana and Jarvis, but ever since she casually mentioned the mission, Jarvis was relentless.  
"I do not trust those two men. It's bad enough you live in the same building as them." Jarvis drummed his fingers on the table.  
Peggy sighed and set down her fork. "I've been on far more dangerous missions with far more dangerous people."  
"It is not safe to be with those two," Jarvis continued. "Have you taken a good look at Sherlock? He's insane."  
"I think he's cute," Ana volunteered, from her end of the table. Jarvis gave his wife a look.  
"You aren't helping my point, Ana," Jarvis said.  
"I just said he was cute," Ana primly answered.  
"Miss Carter, if you would please consider my point; you are in danger, going on a mission with them."  
"Their name's are Sherlock and John, and you know my past experiences in dangerous situations. I. Will. Be. Fine."  
"I strongly disagree, they clearly do not have your best interests in mind," Jarvis earnestly replied.  
"How so?" Peggy stabbed a piece of lettuce in her salad.  
"They want you to accompany them on a boat with an assassin on it!" Jarvis was most distressed. "You hardly know these two men, and for all you know, they could be killers themselves."  
"They'd be cute killers," remarked Ana, amused.  
"My dear, I must insist these comments to stop, they are not aiding in my plea against Miss Carter." Jarvis turned to his wife. "And why must you insist they are so 'cute'?"  
"They are." Ana shrugged. "I don't blame you for wanting to go off on an adventure with those boys, Pegs. Especially that one in the long coat." She winked at Peggy.  
Peggy laughed and took a sip of tea.  
"He's rather dashing don't you think, Pegs?" Ana calmly continued.  
"He's not bad," Peggy airily replied.  
Jarvis sighed and put his head in his hands. "Miss Carter, I beg of you to permit me to accompany you."  
"And what will happen to me?" Ana wanted to know. "Am I just to sit about, while you run off with your other wife?"  
"No I—"  
"Right then. Well. Pegs, I would love to join you on a pleasant little holiday," Ana said. "Might I join you?"  
"I'd be delighted for your company Ana," Peggy said, with a warm smile.  
Jarvis looked at Peggy with displeasure.   
"Well, your wife is far more fun," commented Peggy, coyly.  
Jarvis put his head in his hands. "What will I do with you two?"  
"I'd love to see you try to stop us," Ana daintily replied, and exchanged a knowing look with Miss Carter.

*************

Peggy stood at the railing of the ship, the salty air whipping her brown locks in her face. Rain misted lightly, and the small ripples in the water made the boat bob softly amid them.  
Peggy turned around and gazed at the rest of the boat. It was large enough for several, large, wealthy families to board, and was more of a yacht than anything else. Peggy was unaccustomed to such luxurious accommodations.   
She fixed her gaze back out at the water. The London Eye was still visible, although they'd been sailing for a half hour.   
A familiar voice behind her spoke. "Miss Carter."  
She smiled. "Sherlock."   
He came up beside her at the railing.   
Peggy pulled her jacket tighter across herself, as the cold wind pushed against her. "So, have you seen him?"   
Sherlock shook his head. The rain that damped his hair made it fluffier than ever. "I have yet to meet everyone. Which I do not look forward to."   
"How come?"  
He looked at her like she was crazy. "People. Talking. Social conduct. All of which I do not wilfully engage in."   
"I must say, I agree with you. Being close to people has never been my forte." Peggy ride to keep any seriousness out of her voice. She knew she hadn't succeeded when out of her peripheral vision, she saw Sherlock flick his eyes over at her.  
She changed the subject. "I'm curious; how do you 'read' people? Pray tell."  
Sherlock gestured to a young girl, and member of the staff of the yacht, who was scrubbing the deck a few feet away.  
"She, for instance, works unwillingly as a servant, as she comes from a poor family, and this is her only chance at being at the mercy of wealthy people. She's studying to be a secretary, however, which her family would disapprove of, so she's studying in secret. She is also dating a wealthy boy, who no doubt is on here with us. She must be having a domestic with him, as well."  
"And how? Where did you get this from?"  
"Deducing people is educated guesses off of what you already know and currently see. She is unwillingly a servant, because you can tell by the way she dresses; she's in her staff clothing, but it's messy, unkempt, the buttons hardly fastened on the sleeves. She dislikes it. You can tell she is poor, mostly from her work status now, but also from her Yorkshire accent, which is rouge and uncivilised for people of a higher class.   
She's studying to be a secretary, by the ink marks on her hands. If you notice, her finger on her right hand has a callus where a pen would rest, and the tips of her fingers are callus as well, not from her work as staff. There's ink stains on her wrists which is another clear sign. Her parents disapprove for obvious reasons, so she studies in secret, which is evident from her rigorous attempts at washing the ink off her hands, giving her hands a dry complexion.   
The boyfriend wasn't a difficult conclusion to make. She is of low social status, and yet she is wearing expensive and new jewellery. Couldn't have been from family, or else she'd be better off, no it was a gift. Could have been a friend, but I doubt she makes casual acquaintances with wealthy individuals. A lover, perhaps, would though. Young men often look past social status, if it means a brief affair with someone. She thought it was serious, which is a reasonable assumption because of the jewellery, but recently found out he wasn't serious. He must be in this yacht, because if he broke it off with her on land, she'd not be wearing it. No, it was recent, not giving her time to change because she is too busy working. Her eyes are still quite red, so she's evidently been crying. In addition, her aggressiveness cleaning the floor is a bit explanatory."  
Peggy was stunned. "All of that in a few seconds?"  
"Yes."  
During this conversation, Peggy felt his arm press against hers, lightly.   
"I should like to be able to do that," she said.  
"I can teach you. It takes practice."  
"I would like that."   
They watched the girl work for a moment.  
"I almost pity her," commented Sherlock.  
"What do you mean?"  
"She is distressed over another human, because of 'love'. My theory that love is a chemical defect is more evident than ever."  
Peggy swallowed hard and shifted her gaze back out to the river.

*************  
Ana and Peggy were to share a cabin, as there was a shortage of rooming. John and Jarvis shared, and Sherlock was alone, which he preferred. Ana and Peggy both quickly fixed their hair, changed into dress clothes, and went to attend dinner. This yacht clearly viewed a dress as casual attire.   
Sherlock silently assessed the situation and the guests. It only took a moment:

(1) Lady Elizabeth Michaels, an elderly, sophisticated woman.  
(2) Miss Irene Olson, young, angular, with a clear aversion to clothing.  
(3) Mr. Reign, entrepreneur, stock broker, middle aged.  
(4) Mr. Andy Iainberg, young, wild, reckless.  
(5) Lady Barbra Anderson, the most unwilling participant on board, nervous, in her thirties.  
(6) Mr. Tony Racer, equally wild and just as unpleasant to be around as Andy.  
(7) Mrs. Virginia Timothy, nondescript, quiet.  
(8) Miss Regina Yale, wealthy, cold, in her twenties.

Peggy went to take a sip from her water glass when Andy interrupted her.   
"I don't think we all have had the pleasure of meeting you," he declared.  
Peggy set down her glass. "Margaret Carter. Nice to meet you."  
Andy smirked and slid into the chair beside Peggy, closer than she wished for him to. Peggy was physically appalled by this presumptuous young man. She shifted herself as far away as him as possible, without sitting on Sherlock, or being too obvious.   
The salad was served, by an ever busy staff. Sherlock didn't eat, which didn't surprise Peggy. He never did when he was on a case, saying that it slowed his thinking. Instead, he quietly watched everyone and everything that happened.   
Peggy began to wish more than ever that Andy would stop staring at her in such a demeaning way. She forced herself to be as civil as possible, particularly during a mission.  
Everyone else talked among themselves, at one particular point in the evening, and Andy turned to Peggy, for a private conversation.   
"Marge," he said, "what do you work as?" He took a drink of water and set his glass next to Peggy's.  
"I am a secretary," Peggy said, disliking having to speak to him.  
He smiled, and it was almost chilling. He was so reckless, disconnected from other humans, that his smile was empty, only there for charm.   
"You ought to be a dancer, with legs like yours," he remarked. Peggy began to wish with a passion that she could stab him with her fork.   
"Or a model," Andy added, with an obvious glance at her chest.  
"Do not speak to me in such a way," Peggy said with hostility.  
"Or else?" He smugly smiled.  
Peggy leaned close to him, a sweet smile on her lips. "I'll fracture your larynx, and no one will even know."  
He laughed. "I like feisty women, you know."  
"Your larynx is in considerable danger," was all Peggy said, stabbing a tomato on her salad.  
Sherlock sharply cleared his throat. "Mr. Iainberg, if you would listen to the lady, you are better off. Of that I can assure you."'  
Andy shrugged, not caring at all. He picked up Peggy's water glass, confusing his with her's, and took a sip.  
"Actually that's mi—" Peggy was cut off by a sharp, choking gasp from Andy. He grabbed the table, hacking and rasping for breath. Everyone leapt to their feet, and John, the doctor of the group, slammed Andy in the back with his hand.  
It was too late. Andy crumpled to the floor with a gasp, his skin turning an ashy grey.  
A startled silence filled the room. Peggy, backing away from the corpse, backed right into Sherlock who was standing stoic in the face of of death. Lady Barbra Anderson made a horrifying cry, and fainted. John checked her pulse and declared she was just in shock.   
Everyone was in shock. Had Andy not been sitting a moment ago, laughing and flirting?   
"Is he really dead?" whispered Mrs. Virginia Timothy. Peggy wondered if she ever spoke above a whisper.  
"It would seem so, wouldn't it?" Miss Regina Yale snapped.   
Virginia cringed and looked sickly.  
Lady Elizabeth Michaels shook her head, coldly. "A shame he couldn't have waited. We were having dinner. What an unpleasant time to pass on."  
"I don't think there was much option for that," commented Mr. Reign. He looked down at the asphyxiated corpse.   
Sherlock spoke up. "Everyone leave."  
They turned to him, grateful for a voice of cold reason.   
"Why?" Mr. Tony Racer wanted to know.  
"Because I said so, that's why, so all of you get out."   
Sherlock raised his voice slightly, which only tattered the frayed nerves further. The eight guests left swiftly, including Ana and Jarvis, who was mortified.   
"Want me to leave?" John asked Sherlock.  
"Keep everyone calm and in one room, please," Sherlock requested.  
"Me as well?" Peggy inquired. Now that the startled feeling had passed, she was more than interested in what would happen next.  
Sherlock regarded her a moment. "If you insist."  
"I do."  
"Very well then."  
John left, leaving Peggy and Sherlock alone.   
Sherlock knelt next to the corpse and inhaled carefully. Peggy got down too.  
"Cyanide," Sherlock murmured.  
"That was in MY drink?" Peggy's eyes widened in shock.  
Sherlock looked unusually concerned. "It was. You didn't drink anything did you? If you had even a small amount, you would feel it's effect in a minute."   
"None. He interrupted me," Peggy said, feeling a touch grateful for the interruption Andy had provided.   
Sherlock looked visibly relieved. "Alright."  
"I was going to be poisoned," Peggy said in a low voice. A wave of alarm passed through her, understandably.  
"The assassin targeted you, and now that the wrong victim died, he's going to try different methods. Oh, and he'll probably target Jarvis, Ana, John and me."  
"Nice to know I won't be alone," Peggy said dryly. "So the assassin knows we are on here."  
"Possibly."  
"What do you mean?"  
"I doubt an assassin would have left so much to risk, when whoever it was, attempted your murder."  
"An assassin could have just shot me and Ana in our rooms at any point today. No one would know. This...this was an amateur's work. No well trained assassin would have left the possibility of having their target NOT die." Peggy picked up the water glass, which was now cracked. She sniffed it, carefully.   
"Heavy dosage too, as if to ensure my death. I'm surprised I didn't see it in my glass. Any assassin or agent would know you only need a speck of it."  
"Someone else is on board," Sherlock simply said. "We ought to go make sure John or the others don't get their heads blown off."  
Peggy nodded in agreement and stepped over the corpse of Andy Iainberg. 

*************

Peggy, John and Sherlock were tucked away quietly in Sherlock's cabin, talking in low voices.  
"A hundred people, from guests to cooks could have tampered with my drink before it even reached the table. It could be anyone." Peggy took her heels off and lounged back on the bed.   
A second later, there was a knock at the door. The three turned to it, sharply.  
"Pegs?" Ana's voice echoed through the door.  
Peggy exhaled, relieved. "Come in, Ana."  
Ana eagerly came in, followed by her unwilling husband.   
"I don't think we have really met yet," she said to Sherlock. She shook his hand. "Ana Jarvis."  
"Pleasure." Sherlock gave one of his rare smiles. Peggy could see Ana physically beam light.  
Ana turned around and mouthed to Peggy, "WOW." Peggy smothered a laugh.   
"Jarvis, lock the door," Peggy said, changing the subject quickly. "We can't have any murderers waltz in."  
Jarvis did so at once. Ana sat beside Peggy on the bed, her eyes on Sherlock.  
"Surely, Sherlock, you must have some indication on who it is," John told Sherlock.  
"Nothing concrete yet."  
John gave him a surprised look. Sherlock sighed, exasperated.  
"I've only been on here a few hours," Sherlock snapped.  
"How fitting that we board a boat that has a murder within two hours," remarked John with a slight laugh. "I doubt we'd travel any other way."  
Jarvis spoke up, distressed. "Another person will die, I take it?"  
"More than likely," Sherlock placidly replied.  
"Will the killer kill another person?" Jarvis pressed further.  
"I would think so, murderers kill people, it's what they do." Sherlock gave Jarvis a belittling look. "It's their version of golf."  
Ana sat up slightly. "Who's next?" She sounded as excited as a person who has won the lottery.  
"Whoever the killer deems worthy," Sherlock said. He stood up, as indication everyone should go, so he could think. They all got the hint.   
Peggy was about to leave when Sherlock grabbed her arm and said in a low voice, "You have your gun, correct?"   
She nodded.  
"Good. Carry it with you at all times."  
"I will. You will be alone, are you alright with that?" Peggy asked.  
"Perfectly. I am incredibly difficult to kill."  
Peggy's lips twitched in a smile.  
"Good night, Sherlock."   
"Good night, Miss Carter."  
He let go of her arm and she walked into the hallway, shutting the door behind herself.  
It was dead quiet. She looked at her watch: 9:56pm. Everyone must have gone to bed already. No staff was anywhere. Peggy paused, looking both ways. One part of her told herself to go to her cabin. The other part wanted to do some investigating.   
She sighed, thinking. Going to explore alone was dangerous, but what other time could she investigate, unnoticed? Everyone had gone to bed early because they said they were in shock; what if they stayed up late every other night and there was never a golden opportunity like this again?   
Peggy looked at her watch once more and decided that it wouldn't do any harm to look around for a few minutes.

*************


	4. The Vanishing Saliors Case Part 2

It was dead silent as she walked down the hallway, her high heels making muffled clicks on the floor.  
Sherlock had taught her how to notice even the smallest details. Peggy always was observant, and Sherlock seemed to take a particular interest in that. The tiniest details now stood out. Carpet patterns, lighting, angles of the room, distances between things, all of it. Irregularities. Things that look normal, but are out of place.  
Peggy turned the corner of the hallway and bumped into an older man.  
"Sorry, young lady," he apologised.  
"My fault entirely, sir," she said. "You are the captain?"  
"Why yes, I am," he smiled, a kindly older smile. "My name is Richard Jenson."  
"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Peggy Carter." She shook his hand.  
Peggy subconsciously noticed small things about him. His stance said former military service. His eyes said he worked heavily in combat, so no doubt a general or admiral. His hands said hard worker, and the calluses on his fingers said that he must have been a captain for more than ten years. His ring, still shiny, said happily married. His smile said that he had experience with children, and no doubt had several.  
"Enjoying your sailing, despite the...occurrence?" Richard asked.  
"Why, yes, it's been pleasant." Peggy, an agent, knew the ins and outs of manipulation for information. She cleared her throat. "Awful business, his death! Do we know how yet?"  
"Eh, rumour said it was a seizure. Confidentially speaking, I think he was on drugs," added the captain. He shrugged. "That's not my business however."  
Peggy nodded. "Well, you go off and call your wife," she said.  
He looked surprised.  
"How did you...?"  
"I'm sure she misses you."  
Peggy kindly shook his hand again and walked past him. She smirked to herself as she walked towards the deck. Sherlock was teaching her more than she thought.  
She opened the door and stepped out on to the deck. Far away, London glittered. Moonlight bathed the deck and made it almost bright as day.  
Peggy knew she didn't have much time, and she didn't have much of an agenda. She looked around, and surveyed the whole deck, carefully. Nothing out of place. her footsteps were light and quiet on the deck. Her eyes flickered over into the dark water surrounding them. It was so peaceful, so still.  
The silence was cracked by the sound of a gunshot. 

*************

There was a loud scream, which Peggy instantly located. All the passengers crowded in the doorway of Mr. Reign's cabin. She shoved past the passengers inside cabin.  
Mr. Reign lay dead, a shot through his head, across the bed. Blood stained the pillow. Sherlock and John pushed the sleepy and frightened passengers aside and came quickly to Peggy.  
Irene Olson looked vaguely disturbed. "Another?"  
John quickly pushed everyone aside and out the door. "This is a crime scene and a nasty one at that, everyone go down to the sitting room. We'll be there shortly."  
Jarvis and Ana paused in the doorway.  
"I want to stay," Ana said simply and came in, dragging Jarvis with her. She shut the door behind them. Jarvis was pale.  
"My dear, this may not be fit for your eyes—" he started to say.  
"Shut up, I want to see it."  
Jarvis gustily sighed.  
Sherlock, meanwhile, approached the body, lost in thought. He sat down at the edge of the bed, and stared at it silently, unmoving.  
It was so quiet Peggy's ears began to hurt. Breathing began to feel to loud, and she was aware of hearing her heartbeat now.  
After a long moment, Sherlock asked, without looking up, "What time did everyone go to bed?"  
"Nine o'clock-ish," Peggy replied.  
Jarvis looked uncomfortable. "Ana, I do think—"  
"No. I want to watch." Case closed, clearly.  
Jarvis looked nervous. He whispered, "What if the killer is still in here?"  
"Then we'll have our throats ripped out right about now," Sherlock placidly said, not looking up.  
Jarvis made a sound of horror. Ana punched his arm.  
"John, how long ago was he shot?" Sherlock asked.  
John stepped forward and took a closer look at the body, not even blinking in the sight of the blood.  
"This is older. It's barely bleeding now, and already he looks ashy."  
Peggy walked to the body and touched the bloodstained pillow, without hesitation. "This isn't wet anymore. Blood takes a while to dry. These stains are from at least an hour ago."  
"You said they went up at nine?"  
"About, yes."  
"I heard a scream at 10:04," Ana said, folding her arms across her bathrobe.  
"He must have gotten shot when he walked in his room," Sherlock murmured to himself, more than anyone else. His eyes turned over to Peggy.  
"Miss Carter, when you fall asleep do you normally lay horizontal to the bed's vertical?"  
"Not hardly."  
"Our Mr. Reign fellow is laying with his feet on the floor, down the centre of the bed," John commented. "Which means someone put him there, after he was shot. But didn't have much physical strength or time to lay him in bed properly. That would narrow the search."  
"Quite right John," Sherlock said, pleased.  
Peggy was feeling around the walls, her fingers gliding across the mahogany panels. She came across the panel with the closet and opened it.  
Sherlock HAD trained her well. She took one look and knew something was wrong.  
"Sherlock, come look at this," she beckoned.  
He appeared next to her, and saw what she saw at once.  
"Different size clothes. Brand new. These are props," Peggy said. Sherlock nodded, watching her carefully as she kept exploring it.  
Peggy pulled out the clothes and handed them to Jarvis, who looked displeased with this task.  
"I don't wish to hold a dead man's clothes, Miss Carter," Jarvis said.  
"Understandably so, if these WERE his clothes," Peggy answered. She stepped inside the now empty closet. "This would fit someone, wouldn't it?"  
Peggy flipped on the light switch, and looked carefully at each other walls in the closet. She found just what she was hoping for, only it was on the floor. Peggy felt the area in question, and sure enough, a crimson red stained her fingertips.  
Sherlock was impressed by her quick reasoning. "Perhaps you shall make the deductions now, Miss Carter?"  
She smiled and came out of the closet. As she returned the clothing, she spoke.  
"All the killer had to do was go in the closet and wait for Mr. Reign to open it, to get ready for bed. The shot would be quiet, muffled by clothing. The killer didn't realise that a shot like that would create a lot of blood, and it got on the clothing. Someone supplied other clothes and hung them up. There must be more than one person in on this. Problem was, Mr. Reign was the only thirty year old on board; all these clothes in here would be too small on him. A clever idea, however. So all in all, Mr. Reign was shot quietly a while ago, the killers escaped then set off a fake gunshot sound to mislead us and make it seem like no one was even in here when it happened."  
"True on all accounts, Peggy," Sherlock agreed.  
"Wait...aren't we looking for an assassin?" Jarvis asked.  
"The assassin?" Sherlock made a sound of disinterest. "That was a false lead."  
"It was?" John sounded surprised.  
"Of course. Obvious. This is the real case. The assassin was to deceive Mycroft and lure us here."  
"Why don't we just sail to shore and sort this all out at Scotland Yard?" Jarvis asked hopefully.  
"Because, we aren't going to shore."  
They all looked at Sherlock.  
"Don't you see?" Sherlock looked around at them. "God, you all must be so bored in your little brains."  
"Sherlock, we are trying," John patiently said.  
Peggy already had a strong instinct as to what Sherlock meant. She was right.  
"This boat will not go back to mainland. Not until everyone on it is dead. The vessel of death..." He trailed off, lost in thought. "Everything on here is staged. The deaths—"  
"Plural?" Jarvis looked more nervous than ever.  
"Oh! Yes. More people will die. It's inevitable." Sherlock didn't look concerned or bothered by it.  
Jarvis stood closer to Ana, as if for protection. Ana looked rather excited, her eyes bright and alert.  
"We were invited to our deaths. This is where they want us to die," Sherlock continued. "The yacht is the stage, we are the actors, and the script writer is writing all of us to our deaths."  
"Who is the scriptwriter?"  
Sherlock's blue eyes flickered for a split second but he shook his head. "Someone in control. Someone who manipulate eight other people to come on here, willing to die. What their motive was, I'm still curious."  
Peggy suddenly had a horrible thought pass over her, as she thought of the passengers willing to die. She quietly pulled out a memo pad and began writing. Her agent training always taught her to search for things like this; follow her instinct.  
Ana was incredibly calm. "So what if one of the actors wishes to quit?"  
"I wholeheartedly plan on all of us living," Sherlock said, equally calm.  
Peggy's fingers felt sweaty as she finished writing down the names. Her mind switched around the letters until it spelled one word in her mind. 

Michaels  
Olson  
Reign  
Iainberg  
Anderson  
Racer  
Timothy  
Yale

The first letter of each name. Peggy's pulse quickened, remembering the name. The name was screaming from the page. Peggy's fingers traced over it.  
"Miss Carter, what is it you've come across?" Sherlock knew just from his peripheral view that she had discovered something.  
Peggy hesitated. Lestrade had told her not to say anything, but Peggy had a strong feeling that she had discovered the scriptwriter.  
"Well, uh..." Peggy hesitated. No way beat around the bush, she thought. "Ana, Jarvis, just one moment of privacy, please."  
Ana could tell from her tone, not to argue. Jarvis more than willingly left with her. John stayed.  
"Alright so, um, Sherlock, take a look at this."  
Sherlock stepped over and read it.  
Peggy had never seen Sherlock look afraid before. To most people, he would still look stoic. To Peggy, who knew him well enough by now, she saw a look for confusion and horror cross his eyes.  
John was bewildered. "That's impossible, Moriarty is dead. He blew his own brains out. You saw him do it, Sherlock."  
Sherlock was staring blankly at the wall. Peggy could feel is inner tension rising. Her morbid curiosity about Moriarty and the 'blowing his brains out' part was still prominent, but now was most certainly not the time.  
Sherlock was rubbing his hands and fingers together, subconsciously. Peggy thought she heard him say something to himself.  
John was watching Sherlock carefully. "Sherlock? This is a scam. You can't read too much into this. Moriarty is dead."  
Sherlock didn't even seem to hear him. He rubbed his forehead. Peggy put her hand on his arm, but he yanked away.  
John took charge. "Ok so it's late, we should sleep, ok?"  
Peggy cast one more glance at the late Mr. Reign and she realised that no normal person would have been able to think of these things. The work of a shark, not a man at all.

*************

Peggy came into her shared cabin a few minutes later. Ana was curling her hair.  
"You look tired." Ana handed Peggy a glass of wine.  
"Is it poisoned?" Peggy ruefully asked.  
"If it is, then we both are in trouble." Ana let out a laugh like bells.  
"Bless you, darling," Peggy replied, taking a sip. She changed into her nightdress and let down her hair.  
"Everything ok with Mr. Hottie?" Ana asked, pulling down the sheets on the top bunk.  
Peggy sighed slightly. She sat down on the bottom bed. "Ana, is it true we all have ghosts?"  
"Like the woo-woo kind?" Ana sat down next to her on the bottom bed.  
Peggy took another sip of the wine, and laughed. "No, the psychological kind."  
"Oh yes, those," Ana said, sounding experienced. "We've all got them, Pegs. They're the clouds on our every sunny day."  
Peggy fiddled with her ribbon to her bathrobe. A much suppressed thought tried to flare up, and she hastily shut it down.  
"I believe that Mr. Holmes has a few of his own that come back and haunt him for sport," Peggy quietly said.  
Ana made a clicking sound with her tongue. "Is that what happened a few minutes ago?"  
"I think so, yes."  
"Poor man. Geniuses are always disturbed," Ana stated. "Especially the kind that hold everything in."  
Peggy dug her fingernails into the edge of the mattress.  
Ana went on, "But you know the good thing about these 'ghosts'?  
"What?"  
"They're just in our minds. They aren't real."  
"What if...some of them are real? They really happened, and they're really there?"  
Ana sighed slowly. "They are the ones you have to pull your gun out for."  
Peggy, looked at Ana, and slowly, she knew what to do when the time came.  
Some monsters have to stay dead.

*************

The first thing Peggy did when she woke up with check on Sherlock. She didn't even bother changing out of her dressing gown. She pulled a shawl across her shoulders and was about to leave the cabin when she paused a second  
Peggy opened the bedside drawer quietly, so as not to wake Ana, and pulled out her gun and a thigh holster. She strapped it on and adjusted her gown again. She left, shutting the door silently behind herself.  
It was six in the morning, and no one else was awake yet. Peggy knew Sherlock was, as she doubted he'd even gone to bed at all.  
Her suspicions proved correct. She knocked on the door, out of social dictation, but let herself in anyway, as John had given her the spare key.  
Sherlock was sitting in the chair, and practically the whole room was now draped in a knit blanket. Peggy stifled a sound of surprise.  
"Sherlock, how...."  
"Your idea proved correct. It is aiding in my subconscious stimulus, and continuing my thinking pattern," Sherlock, knitting away.  
"You did this ALL NIGHT?" Peggy clarified.  
"Why yes."  
"You didn't sleep."  
"Why should I?"  
Peggy opened her mouth to say something, but clamped it shut. She came in the room, and shut the door.  
"Sherlock, you clearly are not ok." Peggy looked him up and down. Not only was he sleep deprived, he looked agitated, on edge.  
Sherlock's eyes always gave away what he was feeling, despite his stoic, expressionless face. Peggy had learned to read those eyes better than anyone else's. She gazed at them now, and could see the fear and anxiety built up inside of him.  
"I'm fine, perfectly fine," insisted Sherlock, his fingers twirling around the yarn mechanically. "I can assure you of that, Miss Carter."  
"Right, so staying up all night to think is normal." Peggy irritatedly put her hands on her hips. "Go to bed."  
"No. I am fine, Miss Carter."  
"No you aren't, stop denying it, shut up, and sleep."  
"I can promise you, I am perfectly sound."  
Peggy sniffed the air. Something smelled familiar.  
"Have you been smoking again?" She snapped.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Peggy had none of it.  
"Good lord Sherlock! Going back to your drug habits is inexcusable!" Peggy felt anger rise in her. She wasn't upset with Sherlock, she was growing seriously furious at this Moriarty fellow, whoever the heck he was, for causing Sherlock to be like this. She now knew for certain what do to do the second she lay eyes on this man.  
"It helps me think..." Sherlock tried to protest. Peggy noticed now that his speech was growing more slurred. He stood up, and she saw how off balance he was. Hot anger rushed through her.  
She more or less shoved Sherlock onto the bed. He tried to get up, and she shoved him back down.  
"Sleep. Peggy's orders." She ordered.  
"Miss Carter, I have a case to solve," he promptly replied.  
"And if you aren't well rested, you won't be able to solve it," Peggy answered, channelling her inner patient John. She practically pinned Sherlock down, half on top of him. Even in a drug induced state, he was pretty strong.  
"Case."  
"Sleep."  
"No."  
"Yes."  
She tried to pull a blanket over him, and he ripped it off. "People will die."  
"They will anyway. And when have you cared about people living or dying?" Peggy said, instantly regretting it.  
Sherlock didn't take offence at all. In fact, he agreed. "That's true, I never have."  
Peggy rolled her eyes, her brown locks of hair tousling in her face.  
Sherlock's eyes watched her, analysing. It occurred to him that she looked rather pretty even without makeup on. Sherlock's brain snapped at him why he'd even think such a thing.  
Peggy was undeterred by his conviction that he was fine. "If you don't at least rest, I will leave. The second we got to land. I go."  
Sherlock paused. "Inaccurate. You are saying that as bribery."  
Peggy knew it wouldn't work but she had thought it was worth a try. "Who says I wouldn't?" She demanded.  
"Because, Miss Carter, you are addicted. I do believe in our separate ways, we see eye to eye in the subject of addiction."  
Peggy couldn't argue with this. It was true. She understood, in her own way, how much she NEEDED excitement and a challenge, just like an addict needed their drugs.  
Sherlock sat up, and Peggy was suddenly aware about the lack of space between them. Peggy began to feel her cheeks grow warmer.  
Peggy always noticed how close to her Sherlock always stood. Mrs. Hudson had made a little remark about it once. Peggy wasn't sure what to think. She knew in her heart he wasn't interested in her, just possibly protective, and Peggy wasn't sure how she felt about that at all.  
John opened the door and was visibly startled to see Peggy on the bed with Sherlock.  
"Am I...interrupting something?" He asked, pointedly.  
Peggy quickly got up and felt a flush come over her.. "He's back to 'them'."  
Sherlock groaned. "It was for a case."  
Neither John nor Peggy paid attention to him.  
"Oh bloody—" John said to himself. He gestured to Peggy. "I'll talk to him. You go get dressed."  
Peggy agreed. "We can meet with the other passengers downstairs and perhaps have a mild interrogation."

*************

Peggy and Ana went onto the deck, where the 'mild interrogation' would commence. As they went their way onto the deck, Ana was most enthralled.  
"This is the best weekend I have ever had," she told Peggy.  
"It's definitely the must interesting one I've had in a while," agreed Peggy, promising herself to go and personally kill Mycroft later for even sending them on it.  
A cold wind blew, and the water was choppy. Peggy reached in her coat pocket and felt the reassuring metal of her gun. God only knew how dangerous things were about to get.  
Ana sniffed the misty air.  
"Feels like a storm is coming," she commented.  
"In more ways than one" Peggy answered, her words carried away by a strong gust of wind.  
The other passengers were standing and sitting on the deck, looking irritated. Sherlock looked like he had a migraine. John looked tired now. Jarvis looked nervous, as he was this entire time. Ana and Peggy joined the group. Ana sat. down on a yacht chair with her husband, and Peggy stood beside Sherlock at the railing.  
Regina Yale was immensely on edge. "This is ridiculous and I refuse to have any part in it."  
Tony Racer agreed with her, half shouting, "This is injustice to our privacy! We all are harmless! I do not see why you have to suspect us like we're bloody criminals!"  
Sherlock winced at his yelling. "Shut up, if you would."  
Tony glared at him, coldly. "Who are you, anyway?"  
"Consulting detective and in no mood for your crap," Sherlock answered, rubbing his forehead.  
Tony smiled a big, empty smile. "The man on the pedestal. I've heard of you, Sherlock Holmes. You had the big case where you jumped off the roof, right?"  
Sherlock's blue eyes looked up, sharply. A hush came over the deck. Peggy was tense, waiting.  
"The great Sherlock Holmes. Clever detective, and the one villain smarter than you," Irene Olson remarked. She 'adjusted' her blouse, meaning that she pulled it further down. Peggy was disgusted with her.  
"Moriarty is, and never will be, smarter than me," Sherlock coldly stated.  
"You know that's not quite true," Lady Michaels calmly said. She smoothed her long skirt.  
Sherlock's hands gripped the ice cold railing and his felt his headache pound his skull.  
Virginia Timothy sighed gustily. "Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. You really think you can out-think Moriarty?"  
"There is nothing to 'out-think'. Moriarty is dead. I saw him shoot himself in the head." Sherlock's voice was clipped.  
"Why do you still have nightmares about him then?" Irene wondered aloud. "Do you really, TRULY, think he is dead?"  
The air began to feel like it was freezing Sherlock's lungs. Control, he ordered himself, fighting the rising panic. He exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the air.  
"Moriarty is dead," Sherlock said, steadying his voice. "Tell me who is manipulating you to kill each other, and this will be over."  
Irene came close to Sherlock, completely ignoring Peggy standing next to him, and put her arms around his neck. Sherlock visibly recoiled.  
"You poor disillusioned man," she breathed. "I can see why Moriarty likes you as a pet. He should put you on a leash." She pecked a kiss on his lips.  
Peggy almost choked in disbelief and shock and mentally did a double take. A person does not simply kiss Sherlock Holmes. Irene stepped back from Sherlock, who made no facial recognition of what she just did. Irene smirked. Peggy was officially convinced that Irene was one of the worst people she had ever come into contact with.  
John, the soldier, the man of action, spoke up. "You all are being lied to and manipulated. Tell us who, and as Sherlock said, this can be over now."  
Regina laughed, coldly. "We already told you."  
"But did you listen-n-n?" Cooed Tony.  
That phrase, perfectly engrained into Sherlock's mind, felt like they were actually eating his brain.  
"If you are trying to manipulate me, it's not working," Sherlock simply replied. "You all can live, just tell us who is manipulating you."  
They stared at him, undeterred. Peggy began to wish they all would drop dead right about now. She tried to keep herself calm.  
Tony came over and stood close to Sherlock, who gazed down at him.  
"I liked you more when you were covered in blood on the pavement. I wish you stayed that way," Tony spat, his voice damp with hatred.  
Tony went to turn around, but Sherlock grabbed his arm, twisted it, and almost shoved him over at he railing.  
"Do not appall me when I'm high," Sherlock hissed, his voice deadly.  
"Oh I like this version of Sherlock," Tony said with a grin, despite being hung over a railing with a drop straight into the Thames.  
"Sherlock, stop," John ordered, although he didn't sound particularly upset.  
Sherlock backed off. Tony gripped the railing and let out a short laugh.  
Peggy stepped forward. "If your employer wants us so badly, where is he?"  
"He'll come to you when he's ready," Lady Michaels primly answered.  
"And the killings," Peggy went on. "Why are you killing each other?"  
Barbra let out a cry and put her head in her hands.  
"Shut up, you stupid girl," Tony snapped.  
"What's the point? We're good as dead anyway," wept Barbra. "If we go to land and aren't dead with you five, we'll just get killed anyway."  
She stood up and walked over to the railing, her brunette hair whipping in the wind. She faintly smiled.  
"I prefer this, actually. It's peaceful. It's beautiful out here on the sea. I was born on a ship. How fitting for me to die here."  
Peggy touched Barbra's arm, and felt a wave of pity. She knew all too well how it felt to be hunted with no escape.  
"Come with us, and we will keep you safe," Peggy kindly said.  
Barbra looked at her. "There isn't a way." She dried her eyes on her sleeve.  
"We can protect you, we've done it before," John assuringly said.  
Barbra's eyes were misty. "You can?"  
"We can, I promise." John was so reassuring that Peggy wondered if he ever raised his voice.  
Sherlock had gathered himself together. "All of you will sit and not speak for the return to London. The yacht is going back, starting now."  
Irene shook her head. "Sorry, gorgeous, but if we touch shore, we have been promised to have our heads blown off instantly."  
"That's preposterous. How do they know exactly where we would go?" Ana asked.  
"He knows. We are being tracked my him," Regina answered. "He'll be waiting."  
Virginia quietly opened her purse.  
"But he won't shoot me, if this person you are talking about is who you 'claim' it is," Sherlock said. "Provided the correct cover, some of you could live."  
"Well..." Virginia slowly said. "Let's make sure it's not me."  
In a flash, like lightning, she pulled a cyanide pill out of her purse and bit down.  
The next second was a blur of delirious confusion. Virginia lay sprawled across the deck, the colour draining out of her.  
No one spoke. Barbra began to cry again.  
Peggy's heart was racing.  
She knew that for some reason, they all wanted to die.  
Barbra looked like she was going to pass out. She staggered and collapsed.  
"Please don't let me die," she sobbed. Peggy exchanged a silent look with Sherlock.  
"We won't. I'll take you inside, and you go pack your things," Peggy said.  
She helped the young girl up, and they quietly walked down the deck.  
As they walked, Peggy suddenly had an uneasy feeling. The others were on the other side of the deck now, it was just her and Barbra.  
Barbra stopped suddenly and wiped her eyes. "Peggy, I want to thank you. You're saving my life."  
"It's fine," Peggy smiled.  
Barbra hugged her, suddenly, hard. Like puzzle pieces, Peggy recognised what Barbra was about to do.  
Barbra shoved Peggy over the railing and into the Thames, while she had her hands on Peggy's gun from her coat. She put it to her own head and pulled the trigger.  
The second the gunshot blasted, Peggy hit the Thames and plunged deep into the dark murky water.

*************

Peggy could feel the hard, ice cold water all around her, pushing and shoving her every which way. Her lungs burned for oxygen. She choked on the water that filled her mouth. Peggy kicked and pushed herself to the source of light above.  
Peggy broke the surface of the water, and sucked in more air than she ever had in her life. She hacked on the water in her lungs and her throat burned. She tried not to think of the things she'd probably swallowed. More than just water was in the Thames.  
Peggy ripped off her coat, which weighed her down. She only had a short sleeve blouse on underneath, and the water was so cold she began to not even feel her arms.  
Not only was it cold, it was choppy. The wind was creating small but powerful waves. Had Peggy chosen to jump in, she'd have been fine, but her unexpected fall into the icy water had her completely unprepared. She could actually feel herself going into shock from the cold.  
While she panted for air, one particular wave hit her mouth, making her swallow more water. She hacked and choked.  
She swam over to the side of the yacht and saw there was no feasible way to get on by herself. The others were on the other side of the yacht and wrapped up in their own drama so screaming would only waste precious air.  
I will just have to swim over, Peggy decided. If only she didn't feel herself slowly freezing up.  
She started to swim, as best she could in a skirt. She kicked off her high heels, which was a shame, as she only got them last week.  
Peggy was an expert swimmer, but the water conditions would have made it difficult for anyone. Rain was beginning to fall, the wind was blowing so hard it pushed against her as she swam, waves pounded her body, and the ice water was physically painful. Becomes that, there was the fact that the Thames was one of the deepest rivers in the world. Peggy tried not to think about that fact.  
She pushed on through the water. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move, she felt like a raw from head to toe. Something sharp cut her arm, and Peggy saw that it was an alcohol bottle.  
Lovely, so now I have debris to look out for too, Peggy thought to herself sarcastically. Her sense of humour was the last thing in tact at this point.  
Peggy swam around the yacht, for what felt like hours. If only it wasn't so bloody large. If only she had the lung capacity to scream. If only it was July and not so much like the Arctic.  
Peggy's arms and legs burned now, and she was fairly convinced they'd fall off in the next couple minutes. Her arm was still bleeding, which slowed down her swimming considerably.  
It felt at least like a day had gone by before she spotted something so glorious it was like finding the Holy Grail. The ladder, hanging from the boat. Peggy more or less lunged herself towards it.  
It wasn't completely pulled up yet, but too high to reach. Peggy had to make the hard call: keep swimming towards the direction of the others, or spend all of her energy grabbing this ladder.  
There wasn't time to keep swimming, she decided. But how on good earth would she grab the ladder? It was at least four feet or more higher than her.  
A wave caught her off guard, shoving her underwater. She broke the surface again, gasping and shaking harder than ever, barely staying afloat. A morbid thought passed through her mind. She was actually drowning. She could barely breathe, the waves were pounding her, and she couldn't feel her legs or arms anymore.  
Peggy remembered something from her agent training; anything is possible when fuelled by adrenaline. People have been known to lift cars off people, and children have had the strength to bash full grown men's heads in.  
Peggy took a deep breath, as best she could and shut her eyes for a second. What could give her the strength; inspire both courage and fear.  
Steve.  
The thoughts she had pushed so deep down began to resurface.  
Steve and her mistake. The mistake that sent her to exile in England.  
The mistake that cost her everything she ever loved.  
Peggy's eyes flew open. Hot anger surged through her. She hated herself. She hated everything. She hated the blasted river, she hated the cold, she hated the thought of drowning.  
Adrenaline works in mysterious ways. People forget the full magnitude of it; the unbridled power. A woman, drowning, unable to breathe, suddenly had the strength to jump up and grab the ladder.  
Peggy yanked herself to the second rung, her arms and legs shaking. She climbed to the top, and collapsed on the deck, never more grateful in her life for solid ground.  
Peggy was vaguely aware of people rushing around her. It was a miracle that she had only been ten or more feet away from them and they saw her. She wasn't unconscious, but everything felt hazy and barely there. She shut her eyes.  
She felt a familiar hand brushing her wet hair out of her face, and another one, no doubt John's, taking her pulse. She distantly heard Jarvis asking panicked questions, and saw a hazy Ana hovering, concerned. She heard some of their conversations.  
"She's in hypothermic shock," she faintly heard John say to Jarvis. "And her arm will need stitches."  
An obnoxious voice drifted over. "Too bad you didn't drown," Tony said to Peggy.  
Peggy would've aroused herself to punch him, if only she could feel her arms and legs.  
"If you ever speak to Miss Carter, or so much as look at her again, I will have you buried so deep in the earth that the core in incinerates you," Sherlock said and Peggy could hear the livid anger in his voice.  
She felt her lips almost form a slight smile and she finally drifted off into peaceful unconsciousness. 

*************

Peggy woke up to the sound of a heartbeat monitor beeping. She went to rub her eyes, when she winced, feeling a sharp pain shoot down her arm.  
Peggy completely opened her eyes and saw that she was in a hospital room. Sherlock was sitting quietly by her bedside. She had probably every blanket in the hospital wrapped around her, and her arm was bandaged up.  
She carefully turned her head to Sherlock who looked relieved.  
"Sherlock."  
"Peggy."  
She touched her hair, absently. Her makeup must be so smudged by now she must look like a raccoon.  
"How do you feel?" Sherlock implored.  
"Kind of dead. How are you?"  
"As to be expected."  
"Same." Peggy shivered a little, still chilled. "What did the doctors say about me?"  
"Hypothermic shock. You got some stitches in your arm, five or six. You won't be allowed to move it for a while, and should use a sling. You also pulled almost every single muscle in your arms and legs. And you most likely will have phenomena after being in the cold so long. You ingested a good sum of water, so you will have a bad cough for the next day or so. Oh, and once the shock wears off, you may be prone to vomiting."  
"Oh that's lovely," Peggy rolled her eyes. "Just what I always wanted."  
Sherlock smiled slightly.  
At that moment, Ana and Jarvis burst in.  
Ana exclaimed at the sight of her, "Oh my god, Pegs, you look horrible!"  
"Thank you, Ana," Peggy said with a small laugh.  
Jarvis was at Peggy's side at once. "Miss Carter are you sure you are alright?" He looked genuinely frightened.  
"I'm recovering, dear Jarvis," Peggy fondly replied, squeezing his hand.  
"You missed the most exciting part!" Ana was elated. "We were running for our lives, belowdecks! It was AMAZING!"  
Peggy couldn't help but smile at Ana's joy.  
"Anyway, Pegs, this is for you," Ana said. She handed her her iPhone. Peggy sighed in relief.  
"Thank goodness. I don't know what I'd do without you, Ana."  
"Some people buy flowers, but my god what's the point in that? You're going to be stuck here for a while, you might as well have your phone," Ana declared. "We'll be back later, we're going to get you some better clothing than that hospital dress."  
She and Jarvis hugged Peggy, and left, shutting the door behind themselves.  
The lights still felt too bright, and Peggy shut her eyes again. It was time to get to business.  
"What happened? How did we end up here?"  
"We heard the gunshot from Barbra and couldn't find you, obviously. I figured that whatever happened, you would be resourceful and intelligent enough to get yourself out, which proved correct. I had to keep the others talking about their employer."  
"How did that go down?" Peggy asked.  
"After you fell unconscious, the mayhem commenced. They all went on a rampage and killed each other. They tried to kill Jarvis, Ana, John and I, but the glories of common sense prevailed as always, and we escaped below decks. The oblivious captain of the ship sailed us back here. The "  
"Why were they so willing to kill themselves and each other?" Peggy asked in a low voice.  
"They were manipulated by someone," Sherlock answered. "Into thinking it was their only option. Driven insane by someone else equally crazy."  
"Not Moriarty, of course, he's dead. Who then?" Peggy inquired.  
Sherlock didn't reply and Peggy got lost in thought.  
Moriarty was most certainly dead.  
Wasn't he?

* End of chapter 2 *


	5. Heart of Darkness Case Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was asked how I envisioned Peggy to look. In my mind, she resembles her 'Conviction' look; a slightly more modern Peggy. And yes, it will be explained how she and Ana and Jarvis arrived to the future, from the 1950s. ;)

Peggy Carter quietly watched Sherlock think, the ritual they had been in for the past four weeks now.   
A month had passed since the boat incident. Peggy came out no worse for wear, although she was still weakened. The scar on her arm, in the shape of a crescent, was unsightly but could be covered with her sleeve. The past month was quiet and uneventful. Clients were ushered away at the door.   
It wasn't particularly peaceful, even though nothing happened. It was restless. Sherlock was on edge. John was tired and spending a lot of time with Mary, who was due soon. Sherlock and Peggy had been having a lot of alone time, which would have been pleasant if it wasn't for the fact that Moriarty's 'return' had dug a hole through Sherlock himself.  
Peggy had assured Sherlock more than once that Moriarty was in fact, dead. She knew almost nothing about Moriarty, but she heard enough to know that a person who shoots themselves in the head does not just come back to life. Sherlock just sighed and kept thinking. Peggy began to feel like she had lost her connection to Sherlock. He was a solitary island again, barely talking, not eating, just sitting motionlessly for hours.  
She sighed softly, the rain hitting the windows providing much needed noise. It got uncomfortably silent these past few days.   
"Sherlock, maybe you need to take a break?" Peggy suggested, setting down her book.  
Sherlock's eyes flicked over to her in acknowledgment, but said nothing. Peggy began to desperately wish she could do something for his mental duress.  
"Miss Carter there is nothing you can do, I just have to think," Sherlock said, as if he read her mind.   
"Maybe you need another case to worry about," Peggy offered. She thumbed through the newspaper. "There was a nice murder at the Yorkshire bank."  
"Her work associate did it for her position," Sherlock answered, not opening his eyes.  
"Right, ok...um, there was a suicide that was possibly forced," Peggy put out there, reading the headlines.  
"He wanted to die, his stocks fell and his wife was having an affair," Sherlock matter-of-factly stated.  
"Another suicide pact seems to have happened at some valley in no man's land," Peggy breezed past that article.   
"Can't say I blame them, there's nothing else to do out there but hang yourself." Sherlock drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair.   
"That's the second one this week," Peggy remarked, pausing at the paragraph. Sherlock glanced over at her.  
"Same place?"   
"Same town."  
"Who died?"  
"Random mix."  
"Boring. As I said, there isn't anything else to occupy their time. People seem to find nobility in killing themselves. It's appalling," Sherlock thoughtfully said. "There is no such thing as a noble death."  
Peggy nodded in quiet agreement, sensing the gravity of his tone. She hesitatingly brought herself to suggest a heavy subject.  
"Sherlock, will you ever tell me anything more about Moriarty?"  
Sherlock, who seemed to be fazing out, turned his head sharply. "Miss Carter, there is nothing further to discuss. The man is dead."  
"Yeah and why do you keep acting like he's hiding in the basement?" Peggy shot back, arching one of her eyebrow.  
Sherlock was growing more agitated. "Moriarty has a network of manipulated people, they are the ones we need to worry about."  
John, no doubt, would have left it at that. Peggy was not daunted by Sherlock's cold tone. She set the newspaper down, briskly.   
"I have to know who we are up against."  
"Moriarty is someone I endeavour to keep out of your path, Miss Carter, for your own safety," Sherlock said, his voice indicating that he was done with the conversation.   
Peggy was not. She refused to be spoken to in such a cryptic manner. "Sherlock Holmes, you will tell me what I need to know, and you will do it now."  
Sherlock was rubbing his forehead, irritation rising. He tried to maintain self control. His pulse was quickening. "Miss Carter, Moriarty will not be your concern, is that understood? You will be uninvolved in a my case that involves his network."  
"I just am asking about him. What did Moriarty---"  
"WILL YOU PLEASE STOP ASKING ABOUT HIM."  
Sherlock had never yelled at her before, but she knew she had pressed too far the moment she said it in the first place. A long silence filled the room. Peggy didn't back down. Sherlock stared at her, silently. Peggy felt a pull at her heart. He clearly was worked up over it, and she couldn't do anything about it.  
If there was one thing in the world Peggy disliked, more than anything else, it was not being able to do something. She made a bold move, by getting up and sitting on the armrest of his chair. He watched her, thoughtfully.  
"Sherlock if there is anything I can do---"  
"I am alright, Miss Carter. I apologise for the brash behaviour, it was uncalled for."  
Sherlock, in the two months Peggy had known him, had not ever apologised formally. She was both flattered and surprised. She reached down and squeezed his hand, and act she always found to be consoling. Sherlock was absent, in another world, but his fingers curled around her's, subconsciously. Peggy was more surprised by this than anything else that had happened in her entire life here at 221B.   
Mrs. Hudson rushed in, at that moment, and Sherlock instantly let go. Peggy got up quickly.  
"Dear, there's someone at the door who wants to see you," she told Peggy. She never called her 'Peggy' or 'Miss Carter'. Just 'dear'.  
"Why didn't I hear the doorbell?"  
"It's in the freezer. It kept ringing," Sherlock answered.  
Peggy rolled her eyes and followed Mrs. Hudson downstairs.  
She opened the door and was greeted by a very familiar face; the man who drugged her for Mycroft. She groaned.  
"Come to take me away again?" She snapped.  
"Afraid so, Agent Carter," he said.  
"Mycroft could just phone me if he didn't have this bloody power complex," Peggy complained, following the man to the limousine. 

*************

"Ah, Agent Carter." Mycroft smiled as he looked up when she came into his office.  
"It was pleasant not to be drugged this time," Peggy replied. "You were all to generous."  
"We endeavour to be as civil as possible to our hostages," Mycroft answered. He folded his hands before him. Peggy sat down in a leather chair opposite him.  
"What do you want, Mycroft Holmes?"   
"How is my brother doing?" Mycroft implored, not answering her question.  
"A mess, thanks to you, Mycroft. Sending us on a boat with a bunch of nut-cases was a charming way to spend a weekend," Peggy sarcastically said. "I also got to enjoy having phenomena."   
"I paid for your hospital bill," Mycroft reminded her. "And my apologies. I never anticipated any of that to happen."  
Peggy was utterly unconvinced. She sighed. "Answer me, what do you want?"  
Mycroft sat back. "You've heard of the mass suicides?"  
"Naturally."  
"They aren't. The media has been kind enough to cover it over for us. It's homicide."  
Peggy was startled. "Are you sure?"  
"Everything indicates towards mass killings. Violent ones. Throats slit, erratic stab wounds, choking. The people of Yorkshire are going erratic. Which poses the issue, as to who started it," Mycroft said. "Scotland Yard, and particularly Lestrade, have personally requested me to say this."  
"You want to send Sherlock and I to figure it out?" Peggy guessed.  
"Your instincts prove correct, Agent Carter. If you would be so willing as to do this for the British government," he said.  
"I'll ask Sherlock. I doubt he'll agree. He's most occupied at the moment."  
"Endeavour to convince him," Mycroft ordered, seriously. "Tell him that there is a homicidal maniac, and an entire town is in danger of being killed off. And mention the word 'Network'."  
"I will relay the message with your urgent intentions, of course," Peggy assured him.   
"Very well. Which brings me to my next question." Mycroft cleared is throat. He was never one to avoid being direct. "Are you emotionally attached to my brother?"  
Peggy was taken aback. "Pardon?"  
"Are you emotionally attached to my brother?" Mycroft repeated, unwavering.  
"Explain to me why it is a matter of consequence to you," Peggy demanded. She felt a flush run to her cheeks.  
"I am merely concerned for you," Mycroft calmly stated.  
"I seriously doubt that," Peggy coldly said. "There nothing for you to be concerned about, Mycroft."  
"Agent Carter, my brother is not suitable for any sort of attachment," Mycroft informed her. "If you think he even has fondness for you, you are incorrect. Sherlock does not love anyone. And caring about him is not an advantage."  
"I believe you misjudge him. Sherlock seems to possess a heart somewhere," Peggy replied with forced civility. "And was it not you, who asked me to look out for him?"  
"Looking out for him is not the same as an emotional bond."  
"I do not have an emotional bond with your brother that you suddenly are concerned for," Peggy icily said. She stood up.   
Mycroft wasn't finished. "I am warning you, Agent. Do not form an attachment, romantic or otherwise."  
"I do not love Sherlock in a romantic way," Peggy shot. A thought briefly made an attempt at contradicting this and she shoved it away.  
He was throughly unconvinced, with good reason as well. "Most women tend to fawn over him."  
"I'm not most women," Peggy firmly said.  
"Sherlock knows that."  
A brief pause. Peggy began to feel as if she was being interrogated and wished to leave.  
Mycroft stared at her. "Do not invest yourself in my brother. It will only break your heart."  
"I do not have one to break, Mycroft Holmes." Peggy, from her tone, ended the conversation. "Have a pleasant afternoon. Try calling me next time."  
She turned and walked off, her high heels clicking on the wood floorboards.

*************

"Mycroft kidnapped you again," Sherlock absentmindedly commented as Peggy entered 221B.  
"Why does he feel the need to kidnap people just to ask them something?" Peggy demanded, hanging up her coat.  
"Power complex, what else," Sherlock wasn't paying much attention. "What did he want?"  
"Those 'suicides' aren't suicides at all," Peggy said. She tossed her purse on the couch, which always was a collecting place for any anonymous thing. "The were homicides."  
"And he wants you and I to investigate," Sherlock continued. "Logical, as Scotland Yard is always out of their depth. Why should I be interested in this case?"   
"Well, there IS a homicidal maniac out there, which adds some levity," Peggy informed him. He listened with slight interest.  
"And he said to mention the word 'Network'." Peggy shrugged. Sherlock looked up, his attention caught. He got up and grabbed her coat.  
"Wait what—" Peggy started to say.  
Sherlock shoved her into her coat and propelled her out the door. "Go to Scotland Yard, tell them we're going." He shut the door.  
Peggy stood in the hallways and sighed. Never, in her whole life, had she worked with such a man as Sherlock Holmes.

*************  
Lestrade looked most pleased to see Peggy when she came into his office. Sally Donavan was filing papers in there. Her only acknowledgment to Peggy's entrance was a cold and critical glare. Peggy knew Sally did not trust or like her and quite frankly, Peggy did not trust or like Sally.  
"You'll take the case?" He asked with hope.   
"Sherlock agreed," Peggy nodded, flashing a smile. She always had compassion for overworked, stressed out Lestrade. Sally looked up for a moment at Peggy.  
Peggy always had an odd feeling around Sally; she never felt comfortable. She knew Sally's keen dislike towards her and her working with Sherlock. Peggy cleared her throat.   
Lestrade was relieved. "Dreadful business in Yorkshire. If there is one person who can figure it out, it's Sherlock."  
Sally made a exclamative sound. Lestrade turned to her, irritation written across his face.  
"Anything you have to say, Agent Donavan?"  
"Plenty, most of all the fact that you still let that circus freak work for you," Sally spat. Peggy shot her a glare.  
"Yeah, he's a bit odd, but he is smart," Lestrade replied. "He solves all of our cases."  
"He's a psychopath," Sally stated. "And you, Agent Carter," she added, pointing a file at her, "should not be hanging around with him."  
"I'm sorry but last time I checked, I can choose who I wish to associate with," Peggy retorted, heat rising to her cheeks. This day had brought her into the company of people were constantly aggravating her, and she was entirely done with it all.  
"I'm just warning you," Sally said, throwing her hands up. "He's crazy."  
"Some of the best people are," Peggy answered.  
Sally shook her head, in disgust. "Stay away from Sherlock, if you know what's good for you."   
Lestrade spoke up, "Agent Donavan, step away, if you would."  
Sally sighed and walked off. Peggy stared after Sally, her eyes glacial and glassy.  
"Excuse me a moment, Detective Inspector." Peggy excused herself and followed Sally. She caught up to her in the hallway.  
"What do you have against Sherlock?" Peggy demanded. She would much rather have everything be out in the open, than Sally constantly making passive remarks.   
Sally was surprised to see her. She faced Peggy. "What've you got for Sherlock?"  
"I asked first, and you will answer me," Peggy ordered, her voice echoing her agent training. Rule number one: ask something as though it isn't a question at all, but a direct order. Rule number two: staring without blinking often helps.  
Sally sighed and shifted her weight. "He's rude to all of us, he's a psychopath, he insults all of our expertise here, he has a past of drug use, and he's liable to be blackmailing cause he knows we 'need' his help or whatever." Sally shrugged, tucking her curly hair over her shoulder. "He's not a good man, Carter. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."  
Peggy gave her a pitying look. "You disillusioned idiot." She turned away and walked away without a second look back. 

*************

Peggy bid her goodbyes to an enthusiastic Ana, and a concerned Jarvis.  
"I am not bringing you lot with me, we saw how well that went last time," Peggy insisted. Ana sighed and didn't press a further argument. She was not bothered by Peggy going, on the contrary. She was pleased Peggy was going on an exciting mission and wished to join her. Jarvis, on the other hand, looked more concerned than ever, pacing about and wringing his hands.  
It was the morning that Peggy and Sherlock were to leave for the weekend. Ana and Jarvis had come to 221B to wish her well.   
"Miss Carter, I do not wish to turn on the telly tomorrow and see that your throat has been ripped out," Jarvis anxiously said.  
"I shall endeavour to keep away from the sort that rip your throats out," Peggy replied, amused. She was thereby attacked in a hug by Ana and a polite, quick embrace from Jarvis.   
Peggy exhaled in relief, as she came down the stairs to get to the cab. Hugs were over thank the heavens.   
John was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with a pretty, blonde and pregnant woman.  
"Peggy, this is Mary Watson, my wife," John said, his voice hinting the satisfaction he attained from calling her that.  
Mary smiled, a wide, preppy smile. She shook Peggy's hand. "It's hard to believe I haven't met you yet! You have quite the reputation."  
"Reputation?" Peggy arched her eyebrow.  
"Sherlock speaks very highly of you," Mary remarked. "As does John."   
Peggy smiled, a flush creeping up her cheeks. Mary leaned against the railing.  
"Good god, this kid is quite a kicker," she breathed slowly.   
"I've decided to stay with Mary," John told Peggy, rubbing Mary's shoulders.   
"So it will be just Sherlock and I?" repeated Peggy.  
He nodded. "Yup."  
Peggy made a sound like an, 'oh!'.   
John looked at her, his face more serious. "I'm trusting you with him, Peggy. Keep him together. He's been pretty messed up lately, and if there is one person who can help, it's you."  
"I will, John," Peggy said, her brown eyes assuring. He looked relieved.   
"I'm sure it will be a quick trip," Peggy lightly added. "I hope you won't get too bored." She teasingly smiled, and Mary and John laughed.  
At that moment, Ana and Jarvis came down the stairs. Ana, bubbly as ever, popped next to Peggy.  
"Pegs! You never told me there were others here I could meet!" She exclaimed.   
Peggy laughed. "Jarvis and Ana, meet Mary and John."  
Ana hung herself over the railing and shook Mary's hand, Mary seemed equally pleased to meet her.  
"Mary Watson!" Ana shrilled. "Oh my god, I've been dying to meet you! You're the ex assassin, right?"  
Peggy swallowed back more laughter and John coughed, to hide his.   
"Sure am, girl," Mary said.  
"OH MY GOD we have to talk!" Ana gasped.   
Mary was just as elated. She mounted the stairs with Ana. Jarvis and John turned to Peggy.  
"Bored? I have the feeling that we will be anything but bored."

*************

Peggy and Sherlock arrived in Yorkshire, to a quiet train station. It was stormy, and the air felt damp. The station was alarmingly desolate and eerily still. A nervous looking man, boarding the another train, gave them directions to town at the station.  
"Sir, may I ask something?" Sherlock said, surprisingly polite.  
"Uh sure," the man said, looking around, as if for escape.   
"I assure you, we are harmless, you can trust us," Peggy said kindly.  
"Where are the people being murdered?" Sherlock said with no tact.  
"Sherlock..." Hissed Peggy, whacking his arm.  
He turned to her. "Timing?"  
"Yes, bad timing."  
"Sorry, let me try this again," Sherlock took a deep breath. "Sir, we are private investigators, and we wish to assist in any way we can, in helping these crimes to stop. Any information would be helpful."  
The man considered them, contemplating giving them information.   
"Was that better?" Sherlock asked Peggy.  
"Much better," she answered, approvingly. One of her chief tasks while living at Baker Street was to give Sherlock a slightly softer edge around defenceless, innocent people.   
The man spoke, uneasy, with a heavy Yorkshire accent. "Strange happen's around 'ere. Droppin' like flies, I tell ya, these folks are. Goin' crazy, screamin' about worst fears, and killin' other folks before hangin' 'emselves."   
Peggy cast a glance at Sherlock who was impatient looking. "I don't care about that, where do they go?"  
The man hesitated. "Heart of Darkness Valley. Pitch black down there, I tell ya. Old army spot. Bloody terrifyin' down there."  
"Then why do people go?" Peggy asked.  
"Some wanna 'solve the crime'. There's been some kidnappin's 'ere too. Dropped off at the valley 'here they go nutty. Either way, I'm goin' to London away from these freaks."  
Sherlock said nothing and turned to go. Peggy grabbed his arm.  
"Manners," she reminded.   
Sherlock sighed, and rallied himself to turn around and face the man. "Thank you for your time."  
The man nodded and got on the train for London. Sherlock and Peggy began to walk towards town.  
"Well?"  
"Not too bad. You didn't make this one faint for once," Peggy said, her voice playful. "You really do need work on your timing though."  
"Oh, sue me."  
"I just might." Peggy primly said.  
Sherlock gave one of his rare smiles, amused. They walked into town.

*************  
They arrived at the hotel, a renovated cottage. It was quiet, peaceful. The lobby was old fashioned, strongly hinting of a more luxurious past. A cheerful woman was at the front desk, while a maid dusted. Two other guests sat sipping tea, by the window, calm and contented.  
"Are you two separate, or together?" She, Nancy, inquired.  
"Separate but together," explained Peggy.   
The woman nodded and handed them keys. "Have a pleasant stay."  
She smiled, and Peggy suddenly felt a chill pass over her. It was an empty smile, just for show. Her cheerful attitude was not genuine at all. It is most fascinating the amount of lies that hide behind a smile. Peggy was not one for dramatic, fatalistic thoughts, but there was a something abnormal about the calmness of this hotel, while there was a homicidal killer on the loose. Peggy quickly picked up her bag and walked up the stairs, Sherlock trailing behind her.   
Her room was small, but comfortable. An iron framed bed was on one wall, and a large window looked out over the moor. The air was stuffy and dusty. In the faint light streaming in from the curtained window, she could see dust particles floating about in the air. This room had not been lent for several months, clearly. It was a quintessential British cottage.  
Peggy dropped her bag onto the bed, kicked off her navy high heels and came to the window. She tried to pry the window open carefully, as to not break the thin glass and wood frame. It made atrocious creaking noises, mimicking the sound of a dying animal. She shoved it open completely, letting in a large gust of fresh moorland air. Although it was cool out, the air felt damp and humid.  
A storm is coming, she thought to herself.  
She stuck her head out the window, filling her lungs with the pure air. She shut her eyes, absorbing it in. Such a different pace from London. Peggy rested her forehead against the window pane.   
She opened her eyes and saw a familiar navy coated man, walking out into the moor.   
Now what is he doing? She wondered, although her irritation was tinted with fondness and curiosity. She stuck her head out the window.  
"Sherlock! Where are you going?" She called.  
He turned around. "For a walk."  
"Really." Peggy knew he completely was not just going 'for a walk'. Sherlock never did anything just 'because'.". She sighed. "Don't die or something, I'll be down in a moment."   
She shut the window and put her shoes back on, breezing down the stairs and out the back of the hotel. Peggy traipsed after Sherlock, underneath the gathering storm clouds. She caught up to him fairly quickly.  
"Where are we going?" She wanted to know.  
"Out."  
"That's vague enough," Peggy sarcastically remarked.  
"You'll see."  
Peggy didn't try to argue with him. There wasn't much of a point, anyhow. She dutifully followed him.  
The walk ended a little while later. They stood on the top of a slight, rocky outcropping. Barbed wire fence was in a state of disrepair, scarcely existent, large parts of it gone entirely. One faded sign read, "ARMY BASE KEEP OUT"  
"Heart of Darkness Valley," Sherlock murmured, his eyes soaking in every aspect of it.   
They found a spot without the fencing, and got closer. Peggy peered down the slope, towards the valley.  
It lived up to its name. Dense, dark, wooded. The wind whistled through the tress, causing an eerie sound reminiscent of singing. Ancient army pipes ran down the slope, into the valley, rusted and cracked. There was a small learning in the woods, but despite being exposed to more sunlight, looked equally dark and dense.  
Most frightening of all was the simple fact they knew that so many people went rouge and homicidal after visiting here. There might have even been bodies that weren't found yet, in the forest. Peggy wanted to leave, but there was a morbid curiosity that tempted her to go down and look about. Her mother used to remark that that was the trait that would be her fate one day.  
A sudden gust of wind sent Peggy's hair whipping, and a whistling sound like a scream, through the trees. Goosebumps ran up her arms and Sherlock looked over at her.   
"I can see why people go deranged here," Peggy said, her voice breaking the haunting silence. "It's incredibly unsettling."  
Sherlock nodded. "But why..." He asked himself more than her.   
Peggy bit her lip. It was most certainly a terrifying spot to be, but what about it made people deranged? Did they think they would get lost? Surely not, the murders happened once they got back into town.   
A misty rain cascaded down. Peggy decided she had more than enough of this valley for the time being, besides the fact she was getting damp.  
"Perhaps we should go to town and ask around?" She implored.  
Sherlock nodded, and they turned away from the valley, the whistling shrieks of the wind following them. 

*************

The arrived back at the hotel, and a maid, Amelia, stopped them in the lobby.  
"Do you wish for some tea?" She politely inquired.  
"Actually," Sherlock said, looking her up and down. "I wish to speak to you."  
The maid looked frightened. "Did I do something wrong?"  
"No, you're going to help us," Peggy quickly assured her. She took the Amelia's arm and lead her to the small sitting room.  
"I haven't much time," the maid said, as they sat down on a sofa.  
"That's alright, we'll make it count," Peggy said with a slight smile. "We're private investigators, and have to ask a couple questions about the Valley."  
Amelia shuddered. "Don't go down there."  
"Exactly what we are wondering. Why?" Peggy wanted to know.  
Amelia fidgeted with her apron. "People go crazy."  
"I know that already, everyone has already said that. What do they saw when they go deranged?" snapped Sherlock. Peggy gave him a look.  
Amelia shrugged. "The ones that made sense went on about their biggest fears and 'seeing' their horrors."  
Sherlock looked meditative and clasped his long fingers together.   
"No one makes sense after it," Amelia stated.  
"Yet people keep going to investigate for themselves?" Sherlock pondered. "There have been kidnappings as well?"  
"Yes, sir. Seems like they were dumped at the valley, because they returned to town, in that zombie like state," Amelia went on.  
"All of the kidnapped victims?"  
"Yep."  
Sherlock exhaled slowly, thinking. Peggy and Amelia watched him think. At that moment, the innkeeper came in. He was a pleasant, kooky sort, prehistoric, with no memory whatsoever. He forgot things as soon as they were said, which proved to be problematic for both the guests and his staff.  
"Maria---"  
"My name is Amelia, sir," the maid said.  
The innkeeper nodded. "Alright, Nancy, leave the cousins' alone."  
"Work associates," Peggy gently corrected.  
"Right, well, Amelia, leave the brother and sister alone," he said and walked out.   
"Thank you for your time," Sherlock said to Amelia, standing up. Peggy took it as her signal to get up as well. Amelia nodded and went back to dusting.  
"What now?" Peggy whispered to Sherlock as they walked towards the staircase.  
"We wait for the next victim," he answered. "Which will be soon enough."

*************


	6. Heart of Darkness Case Part 2

*************

Night fell. Peggy sat up in her bed in her night dress, reading, unable to sleep. Her wavy brunette locks fell loosely around her shoulders. Sherlock was across the hall, and she strongly suspected he was pacing or sitting staring into space as always. Peggy had been avidly growing more attentive to his whereabouts.  
She flipped the page in her novel and listened to the sounds of the hotel. A few other people checked themselves into rooms. The pots and pans clinked in the kitchen. Finally, it had fallen silent, and she figured everyone drifted to sleep.   
She glanced at the clock. 1am. She wished she could sleep, and although she was tired, her mind didn't click off, thinking about the valley and the victims. She wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time.   
She heard creaking noises downstairs. It replicated the sound of a front door opening. Peggy cast aside her novel, listening for more.  
Footsteps. Downstairs, walking towards the staff sleeping chambers, from the sound of it.   
Must be a servant, thought Peggy. She started to pick up the novel again, when she heard a strange sound. She couldn't even describe it. It was similar to an extremely soft scream, or cry out.  
It was so short she wasn't even sure if it was real. She got up, the wood floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. She opened her door and peered down the dimly lit hallway. She heard nothing else, but curiosity got the better of her.  
She stepped out into the hallway, listening carefully for more. A light was on, of course, in Sherlock's room. Peggy didn't know if he ever did normal things like sleeping or eating. She doubted it.  
She heard the noise again, and quickly made her way to the staircase. It was almost completely dark, only a few wall lights providing a slight glow. With quiet and steady steps, made her way down the stairs and into the lobby. No sign of life.   
Her ears picked up the sound again, and she swiftly followed it down the back hall, to the staff sleeping quarters. She knocked on the door.  
Silence.  
Peggy began to feel uneasy. Something was wrong. She knocked again. Deathly silence.  
She tried the doorknob and it gave open. The room was pitch black. Peggy felt the all by the door and flicked on the lights. She sucked in her breath so hard, it hurt.   
Brilliant red blood was everywhere. The staff and servants lay strewn about, strangled and beaten. Huddled in the corner was a young boy, about 18, still alive.  
Peggy's mind took a moment to process it all. The sight of so much blood so unexpectedly caught her off guard. She jumped when she saw the boy.  
She tried to find something to say. "Who are you?"  
He shook his head and rocked back and forth. Peggy took a step closer.  
"Did you do this?"  
He nodded.  
"Did you go to the valley?"  
"I was taken there," he said, his voice sounding odd and thick.  
"By who?" Peggy tried to keep as calm and collected as possible around 20 dead people and a possibly insane teenager.   
"He was short...nice clothes...nice voice...I trusted him..." He rambled on nonsense. Peggy sensed that he was slowly making less and less sense.  
"What happened there?" She interrupted.  
"I dunno...was foggy...dark..." His head snapped up, fire blazing in his eyes. "I saw myself."  
That's all he said before he got to his feet and lunged himself at Peggy, grabbing her throat. Peggy let out a muffled scream, and kicked him hard. He was stronger than any ordinary teenage boy and didn't let go. He squeezed her throat like it was rubber. Peggy couldn't breathe. She slammed his back against the wall, and he let go briefly. As she gasped for breath, she bashed his head into the wall. He didn't even blink, but grabbed her wrist, and twisted it. Peggy slammed her forearm against his, and he let go, long enough to grab her hair and yank. She muffled a cry out, and instead whipped around, twisting and throwing him onto the floor, as hard as she could.   
He got up, and his eyes spelled out murder. He threw himself at her, shoving her in a corner, squeezing her throat harder and harder.  
Peggy stopped breathing and she felt like she was going to pass out. She struggled and he clamped one hand over her eyes, so she couldn't even see where she was in the room. Peggy decided to use up her last breath of oxygen and scream. Screaming, in a pinch, always helped.   
Within two seconds, someone yanked him off of her. Sherlock grabbed Peggy around the waist and just about threw her out of the room, into the hallway. Peggy rolled over and got a glimpse of Sherlock and the innkeeper in the room, before the door was slammed shut. There was a single gunshot.  
The door opened and the innkeeper looked pale as a sheet, standing in the doorway his back turned. Peggy staggered to her feet and pushed him aside, stumbling into the room.   
The young teenager lay dead, a single shot in the head. Sherlock's mind was already onto something else, and was looking around the room. He looked up quickly when she came in.  
"Are you alright, Peggy?" He asked, his voice concerned. He came over to her, his fingers brushing against hers.  
"I'm alright." Her throat would probably bruise and look atrocious in a matter of an hour, but other than that, she was in no other physical harm. She gazed down at the boy.  
"Who pulled the trigger?" She quietly asked.  
"What would you have done?" He fixed his eyes on hers.  
She understood on more levels than one. They turned to the 21 corpses.   
"He was insane," Peggy explained. "He told me about seeing 'himself' there."  
"Did he say anything else?"  
"He was kidnapped. He described the person as, 'short, nice clothes, nice voice.'"   
Sherlock's jaw tensed up slightly. Peggy instantly caught on.  
"Is that...?"  
Sherlock didn't answer.

*************

"Steve, darling, don't go in there, please," pleaded Peggy.   
Steve laughed. "I'll be fine, Peggy."  
"No you won't, please don't make me–"  
"Press the button, it'll be fine."  
Peggy's finger pressed down on the button—  
Peggy woke up with a start, her heart pounding. Her mouth felt dry, and she got up and got a drink of water. In the mirror, she took a look at her bruises. That kid had quite the grip. She didn't know how'd she'd explain this one to Jarvis without him going into hysterics. The remembrance of the crime scene turned oeggy's stomach and she took another long sip of water.   
A rain dripped from the sky, rhythmic and soothing after the events of the previous day. It was late morning, about 10. Peggy shoved any further thoughts of her dream out of her head. She dressed quickly and stepped into the hallway.   
She knocked on Sherlock's door. No answer. A suspicion passed through her mind, and she shoved open the door. No one. Peggy hastily ran down the stairs. The only people there were policemen and the innkeeper. Peggy grabbed his arm.  
"Have you seen Sherlock Holmes?"  
"Your boyfriend?" He looked confused.  
Peggy smothered a sigh. "No, my work associate, remember?"  
Of course he didn't remember.  
Peggy stumbled out a further explanation, "Wears the long navy coat, blue eyes, brown hair?"  
"That was Sherlock Holmes?" The innkeeper seemed pleased, almost. "Was so dark I didn't recognise him. Quite an honour to have him stay here."  
Peggy cast him an impatient look. "Yes, him, have you seen him?"  
"Yeah, he went out a couple of hours ago."  
"Where was he going, did he say anything?"  
"For a walk, he said."  
Peggy's heart stopped altogether. She turned and rushed out of the hotel. 

*************  
Peggy had ignored the rain, ignored her wet hair, and now ignored the "KEEP OUT" signs, and went right through the barbed wire fences.   
Heart of Darkness Valley stretched before her. She hesitated. God, what could happen down there?   
I just have to make sure Sherlock isn't down here, and I'll be in and out in minutes, she told herself, brisk as ever. After all, she was mentally sound and not looking for a any trouble. She decided she would follow the rusty pipes, so she wouldn't get lost.   
She half slid down the slope, and walked into the forest, keeping her mind as logical and matter of fact as possible.The rusty pipe made a creaking sound next to her.  
The clearing was straight ahead. Peggy hesitated, then walked out into it.  
Fog rolled in slowly. The trees surrounded her. Peggy wasn't frightened, just damp and eager to leave.   
The fog was thick now, and Peggy decided to turn back. The ground felt like it was spinning, suddenly. She took a deep breath and told herself it was anxiety.   
The fog seemed to be everywhere. Peggy couldn't see anything. She felt odd, like her head was floating, and the rest of her was cemented to the ground. Peggy dropped onto the ground.

*************

Sherlock arrived back at the hotel, having just conducted an interview with the teenager's parents. They hadn't been all too pleased when they found out everything that happened, but Sherlock found that they were somewhat helpful: their son had been gone for twelve hours, and had gotten in a car accident at 16. Everything else they said didn't make much sense between their sobs.   
The innkeeper came over to him at once. "Your wife asked for you...no wait...sister? Niece?"  
Sherlock blinked. The innkeeper shrugged.   
"The girl you were with. She went out to find you."  
Sherlock snapped tot attention. "Where did she go?"  
The innkeeper shrugged. Sherlock abruptly turned and instantly went in search of her. 

_______

Peggy stood, unable to move. The fog was gone. She felt like she'd been drugged, only far, far worse.   
Someone spoke. A feminine voice echoed among the trees, tinted with Russian.  
"Peggy. I've missed you."  
Peggy felt her heart drop to her feet.  
Dottie Underwood came around from behind her, and smiled, a cat who caught the canary. Peggy's lips parted in shock.   
"Dottie...?" Peggy choked out.   
"Not Dottie, this is you, actually," Dottie said, and glanced down at her nails. "Your subconscious."  
"Why are you in my subconscious?" Peggy faintly asked.  
Dottie smiled. "You are the one that put me here."   
"Why would I do that?" Peggy forced her eyes to stay open. The sensation of being drugged get like it slammed her in the face.   
"We all do things we come to regret," Dottie murmured. She looked over Peggy's shoulder. "Isn't that right, Steve?"  
Peggy froze. She turned slowly and...  
"Steve." Her voice was a barely audible whisper.  
Steve Rogers stood behind her, his blue eyes sparking, his smile bright. Peggy was breathless at the sight of him.  
He came over and in one swift motion, kissed her. It felt horrific, like the life was being sucked out of her. She struggled away, and almost collapsed, Dottie smacked her face sharply and Peggy felt a rush if blood to her head.   
"Peggy, what's happened to you?" Steve demanded her.  
"What...?" She struggled to speak.  
"You are so different now. So, so different..." Steve shook his head.  
"Steve's disappointed in you, Pegs," Dottie said softly.  
Peggy felt tears prickling her eyes. "Steve, what do you mean?"  
He walked in circles around her. "You're different. Don't you miss me?"  
"Every day," Peggy whispered.  
"Seems you've replaced me," Steve added.  
"Never would I replace you," Peggy's voice was desperate. Steve stood close to her. The three stood in a triangle position, Peggy as the victim on the main point.  
"So who's the new guy?" Dottie inquired.   
"What new guy?" Peggy stammered.  
"The one you work with," Dottie explained. "Who is he?"  
"Why would I tell you?" Peggy wondered.  
"I want to put a bullet in his head, I have to know his name!" Dottie shrilled.  
Peggy felt a swell of fury pass over her, uncontrollable, like an ocean wave. "Don't even think about touching him," she said with venom.  
Dottie was most amused by her defensiveness. "Yet, we have an issue here. I'm not Dottie, I'm your mind. Which means, you must be genuinely concerned that the real Dottie will kill Sherlock." She smiled. "That's adorable. How do you feel about this, Steve?"  
Steve was giving Peggy a cold look. "I am the love of your life, remember?"  
Peggy felt like a migraine was pushing at her skull. She winced, and Dottie and Steve became double vision a moment.   
"Steve, I'll always love you," Peggy forced out. Her throat felt thick and her voice sounded unusual and warped.  
"No you won't," Steve said. "You won't love me forever. You'll move on and forget me. Won't you?"  
"No, no I couldn't," Peggy's voice was hoarse.  
Steve's blue eyes were unconvinced. "But that's what you are afraid of?"  
Peggy couldn't speak, her throat felt so closed off.  
Dottie looked bored. "Well, I'm off to go kill Sherlock. Stupid punk deserves a bullet."  
A gasping screech escaped Peggy. She couldn't move her feet. "If you kill him, there is no place on this earth you can hide from me."  
"Why weren't you that defensive for Steve?" Dottie prodded. Her words seemed like knives cutting into Peggy's brain.   
Steve's blue eyes were hurt. "Peggy why didn't you save me?"  
Tears ran down her cheeks, and a sweep of numbness covered her skin. "I tried Steve, I tried..."  
"Not hard enough, clearly," Dottie remarked, sliding her arm around Steve's. "Protecting Sherlock is your redemption round, it seems."  
Peggy's jaw seemed to be cemented down, causing her teeth to throb.  
"You have a habit of losing those closest to you," commented Dottie, placidly. "You really think Sherlock will be any different?"  
Peggy couldn't speak. Her body felt frozen in place. Dottie came over and stood so close, Peggy could feel her breath on her face.  
"One of these days, the only body you'll be standing over is his," Dottie hissed.  
Peggy was in mute horror, incapable of the correct words to convey her passionate hatred. Dottie smiled sweetly and walked behind Peggy and vanished.  
Steve and Peggy stood, facing each other. He approached her.  
"Why did you let me die?" He looked tired, worn to the bone.  
"I didn't Steve, I would never have let you die," Peggy's voice was weak. "You told me to do it."  
"But there must have been some way you could have saved me," Steve said. "Some way..."  
"There-there wasn't..."  
"What if there was, and you didn't do it?" His tone was of mock horror, and the words hung in Peggy's mind for years to come.   
Steve sighed gustily. "We were going to be so happy together. If you hadn't encouraged me to come on the mission, we could have been married with kids now. Our children." His eyes widened slightly, pupils dilating. "Isn't that what you wanted? What you messed up so atrociously that you were exiled to England?"  
Peggy could not speak, her words frozen in her mouth.   
"How many times a day do you replay your final conversation? How much fear do you have every time you get a case, in fear there is a connection to Hydra?"   
"Hydra." Peggy managed to speak. "They're still out there."  
"Always. They always will be. And you had killed the one person who could have stopped them." Steve made a clicking sound with his tongue.  
"Stop. Talking." Peggy ordered, squeezing her eyes shut, blocking out the words that came from Steve.  
"I can't stop talking, how can I stop when I'm you and your thoughts?"  
A stifled sob escaped Peggy. His words hammered her mind.  
"You really think you can escape yourself and these thoughts?" Steve sounded weary. "You can't. You can never, ever escape yourself. You can move to a new country, you can take a new identity, you can work a new job, you can make new friends, but you can NEVER leave behind who you are and what you did."  
Peggy was incapable of movement, speech or any sorry of reply. She was frozen in horror, frozen in the moment.   
Steve kissed her cheek goodbye. "See you in your nightmares, my darling." 

_______

*************

It didn't take Sherlock long to locate Peggy, mostly due to the piercing scream that radiated throughout the forest. He found her in a collapsed heap in the clearing, motionless.  
A brief panicked thought passed over is logical, balanced mind, as he quickly was at her side and checked for a pulse. Strong, racing. He was too well-disciplined to allow himself to exhale in relief.   
She seemed entirely unharmed, except for a few minor abrasions and being unconscious. He swept up her limp form and carried her out of the horrid nightmare of a valley. 

*************

Peggy had awoken in her hotel room. Night had fallen and it seemed as though she had slept for years. It took a moment to collect her thoughts and remember what had occurred previously. A cold feeling came over her and she felt a headache coming on.   
The memories still hung fresh and vivid as thought they were just spoken. The horrifying chill of it all would possess her mind for ages. Peggy noted, however, that she felt no need to go kill anyone, which was an unusual case from the victims.  
See themselves. So that was what they saw. Their nightmares. The people that still lived in their minds.   
Steve.  
Peggy denied herself the relief of tears, thinking back about it. An ache filled her her, and she reached over and took the aspirin on the bedside table. She knew that wouldn't cure the mental pain and anguish at the present time.   
What would, however? Peggy thought for a second, before realising that the one thing that would possibly aid in putting her mind at rest was to find whoever was responsible for doing that to innocent civilians.   
She got up to find Sherlock. 

*************

Peggy had what Ana called, 'mission mode' on. Power walking, ignoring everyone and everything. Everything about her read, 'Mess with me and I will destroy you'. She opened the door to Sherlock's room without knocking.  
He looked up from his book, surprised.  
"Are you alright?" He asked.  
Peggy didn't answer. "Come with me."  
Sherlock gazed at her quizzically. "Where are we going?"  
"To find the person responsible. Step on it."

*************

Peggy somewhat stormed to the nearest taxi, Sherlock trailing behind. She banged her fist on the driver's window.  
"Police, get out." Her voice was as sharp as the biting wind.  
Any person in the their right mind would heed her command, and the driver quickly abandoned the car, a frightened look on his face. She got in. Sherlock got in the passenger seat.  
"Are you alright to dri—"  
"Shut up, I'm fine."  
Sherlock arched his eyebrow cynically but didn't say anything else. "Do you want to kill me?"  
"No more than usual," Peggy snapped, putting the car in drive.  
Sherlock, for once, didn't get a last word in. Peggy was convinced he'd outlive God just to have a final word in things.   
There is Aggressive Driving and there is Extremely Angry Driving. Peggy was the ladder. She had a death grip on the wheel so hard, it was shocking that the leather didn't crumble in her hands. Sherlock had not seen her this intense before.  
"May I ask where we are going?" Sherlock tactfully spoke.  
"The army base."  
"Army base...?"  
Peggy's knuckles were white as she gripped the wheel and aggressively turned into a road that ran towards the Valley.   
"Think, it's the new sexy," Peggy said. There a voices that are cold, and then there are voices that can re-freeze the Arctic. Yet again, she was the ladder.  
Sherlock's mind was already going through the possibilities when he suddenly said, "Hound of the Baskervilles."  
"What?"   
"A case I did with John. People hallucinated a monstrous dog haunting the moorlands. Turned out that a poisonous smoke was actually infecting the victims, giving them a type of stimulus that had them imagine seeing it. There wasn't really a dog. The smoke was transmitted through pipe—"  
He stopped and Peggy knew that he understood her theory.  
"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, alert. "Ohhhh...You are clever, how could I have missed that?"  
Peggy gnawed on her lower lip. "When I went down there, there was fog everywhere. I must have breathed it in, and it knocked me out."  
She felt Steve's words in her mind, and she pushed them out. She kept taking, to keep any further thoughts away, rambling slightly. "It's an army base, so...so someone inside can control the output of any hazardous fog and smoke through...through the lines. We have to go inside and find out who is behind it."  
Sherlock already had a feeling who it was, and said nothing. Silence is an art.

*************

The army base seemed entirely abandoned, in a state of disrepair and falling apart. One would have thought it was a futile search, but the one give away to the hint of civilisation was the noticeable new locks on the doors.  
Peggy and Sherlock knew their way around army bases and took them only a matter of minutes to locate the control room.   
The room was entirely functional, a beacon of clean, sterile, working progress in the abandoned base.  
A piece of paper lay on the desk. Peggy picked it up and almost dropped it. Sherlock took it from her and it simply read:

Missing you!  
Can't wait to meet the new girl!  
Xoxo  
JM

Sherlock's long fingers crinkled the paper into a minuscule ball. Now he was the intense one. Peggy's eyes shifted across the room, feeling as though they were watched, stalked, even now.  
"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock murmured to himself.   
"'The new girl'. That's me, I suppose?" Peggy clarified.  
"I would think so."   
"Oh."  
Sherlock wasn't speaking, and Peggy took the matter into her own hands. She sat down at the desk and pulled up recent activity on the computers.  
"Diphenhydramine," Peggy said in a low voice, "was last injected through the pipes. That's why I must have slept for several hours afterwards."  
Sherlock was relieved to have a mental distraction. "Yes, but that alone wouldn't cause hallucination. Something was added."  
Peggy nibbled her fingernails. Sherlock was quiet. He put his hand on the armrest of the chair, looking over her shoulder at the images. She listened to his breathing for a moment.   
"Someone is still here," Sherlock said, alert.  
"It's deserted, Sherlock..."  
"No...the armrest is still warm, and not from you. Someone was leaning on it just before we got here. It takes about 10 minutes for heat to leave a surface such as this cloth. Someone is watching us..." He peered around the room, his mind working on a thousand different combinations.   
He opened the door from the control room and Peggy followed him out. She listened attentively for sounds of anyone else.   
"We will never be able to find the person together, if they haven't escaped already," Sherlock said, stopping.  
Peggy nodded, and they split ways.  
Peggy listened as her heels clicked along the concrete floor. Mice, spiders, and other unsightly creatures lurked all around her. She tried not to think about them.   
She had learned countless more things from her two months with Sherlock than she had in her whole agent training regime. There was more to her than firing guns. A carefully refined mind was just as much of a threat to the enemy.  
Agent training. Steve...  
Peggy drew in a sharp breath and pushed more thoughts of him out of her mind. Yet another skill she'd picked up was that of compartmentalising thoughts and emotions. You are in entire control of how you feel, and every thought that passes through your mind. Peggy ignored any further thoughts and feelings about him.  
Peggy's eyes skimmed over every corner and every surface. She saw a distinct footprint in the dirt that had collected on the concrete. She knelt down and studied it.  
Medium sized feet. Fresh. Male. The granules of soot and dust disguised any other evidence.   
Peggy straightened up and heard a rustling sound, and a crack. Urgency coursed through her as she rushed towards the cause of it.  
She turned the hallway and came face to face with a man standing over Sherlock's body in the floor. Peggy let out a sharp exclamation and tackled the man, practically.  
"Stop!" The man gasped. Peggy shoved him onto the floor. He grabbed his ankle.  
"What did you do to him?" Peggy demanded, dropping on the floor, checking Sherlock's pulse.  
"You broke my ankle!" The man gasped.  
"I sprained it, shut up," Peggy snapped. "What did you do to him?"  
"I-I injected him with a drug," the man sputtered, grabbing his ankle tightly.   
"What ones?"   
"I don't even know, I was following orders..."  
Peggy's fingers curled tightly around Sherlock's wrist. His pulse was quickening.   
"Is he having the same hallucinations as everyone else did?" Peggy's voice was so sharp, it could cut like knives.  
"Yeah I guess so, I don't know." he shrugged. "I think you broke my ankle!"  
"Next thing that will break is your skull if you don't shut up right now." Peggy was two seconds away from doing just that.   
The guy sighed irritated. Peggy gave him a look of death.

_______

Sherlock staggered to his feet, alone in the hallway. A horrific headache stabbed his mind. The ground felt like water. He tried to focus.  
An Irish voice came from behind him, singsongy. "Hi."  
Sherlock's heart stopped cold in his chest.   
A short, moderately attractive, well dressed man, with an emotionless smile, stepped into view.  
"Bet you didn't think I'd be here...although it's not entirely surprising...I do tend to overstay my welcome here in your mind," Moriarty said, steely. "But you enjoy it, don't you."  
It wasn't a question. Sherlock tried to ignore his pounding headache and the cold sensation running through him, and focus. "How could I not."   
Moriarty stood directly in front of Sherlock.  
"You have missed the real Moriarty, haven't you?" He remarked, offhandedly.  
"Why would I?"   
"You miss the challenge."   
"Don't be absurd."  
"I'm not being absurd, I'm being your voice of honesty right now," Moriarty answered. His eyes were dark and dead as always. There was an odd hypnotic quality about them. So deceiving, such a fake display of humanity in an otherwise dead soul.  
"Get out of my head," Sherlock said, steadily.  
"Oh lord Sherlock, don't get like that with me," Moriarty signed. "You really want to be civil with the real Moriarty?"  
"Moriarty is dead," Sherlock shot back.  
"Oh don't tell me you believe that," Moriarty groaned. "You're getting boring in your old age, Sherlock."  
Sherlock's jaw tensed.   
"When you cross paths with Moriarty, which will be soon, you really expect to end it civilly? Now you are the absurd one." Moriarty crossed his arms. "People will die. This will not end well for either of you two."  
"I know that."  
"Remember when Mycroft told you stories about the East Wind? I'm sure you do, but I'll just refresh your memory," Moriarty grinned, an empty, meaningless smile. "The East Wind would come and sweep away people who were deemed 'unworthy' by the Wind, leaving behind heartache, pain, loss and death. Do you honestly think it will end any other way for you?"  
Sherlock fought back a piercing pain that radiated throughout every bone in his body. He took a deep breath. Moriarty stepped forward, looking at him inquisitively.  
"You're different Sherl," he commented.  
"Faking your death does that to people," Sherlock forced out.  
"Mmmm, clever, very clever." Moriarty laughed slightly. "So! Mary and John are married and expecting now? How nice. Real Moriarty should stop and say hello, he owes them the pleasure."  
"Not if I can help it," Sherlock replied.  
"Oh but that's the thing, you can't," Moriarty said, his voice of mock pain. "You see, you can't help any of them. Let's have a little example."  
A stabbing pain ran through Sherlock that almost was enough to collapse under. His mind felt like it was short circuiting. Moriarty walked behind Sherlock, and came back with Mary, Peggy and John.  
"See your three friends in the whole world?" Moriarty gestured to them. Sherlock's lungs began to throb with every breath. "You can't 'help' them. You just can't. You can try, but you'll never be able to really protect them. You've always been powerless, and you always will be."  
"You are atrociously incorrect," Sherlock snapped.   
"How can I be, when I'm you, and these are your thoughts?" Moriarty innocently waved his hands.  
"Powerless. Is that one of your greatest fears? Watching your friends die? That's a predicament, as they will, soon. Shall we have a test run?"  
"Stop!" Sherlock half said, half shouted. Wake up, he ordered himself. His limbs felt like concrete, incapable of movement of any kind. They may have well been chains, as all he could do was watch.   
Moriarty came over to Mary. "Mary, Mary, Mary. Sweet Mary." He turned to Sherlock. "A shame she and the baby have to die so young, and so out of your control."  
He pulled out a gun and shot Mary, before she could so much as cry out. Sherlock's breathing quickened. It's just a nightmare, he thought.  
"That was so out of your control, wasn't it? You couldn't step forward, you couldn't save her." Moriarty sighed and turned to Peggy. Sherlock began to feel panic surging.   
Moriarty ran his finger down Peggy's face. "Peggy. Sherlock respected you from the moment you two first met. You were warned he was a dangerous fellow to be around, and now here you are, paying for it."  
"Sherlock, please save me!" Peggy screamed, struggling against Moriarty. "Do something."  
Sherlock's breathing throbbed painfully, unable to think or feel, just watch in mute pain as Moriarty shot Peggy.  
Moriarty was on a roll. He came over to John, and spoke to him instead of Sherlock. "Your best friend in the whole world. The man who saved you from yourself. Saw past your damaged, soldier soul. He jumped off a rooftop, just to save you. You never lost your loyalty to Sherlock, you never gave up on him. You truly were a good man. And now, your attachment to Sherlock will bring you death, and him eternal regret. Sounds fun, doesn't it?"  
He shot John, in one with motion.  
"See what you did, Sherlock? You will be the cause of your only friends' demise. This is your fault!" Moriarty exclaimed.  
A pain like no other stabbed Sherlock and he dropped onto the concrete floor.   
Sherlock's mind was a working system of logic and facts. Any system has its defects, viruses that slowly eat up the entire system.  
Moriarty knelt down next to Sherlock. "Meet your virus, Sherlock."  
Sherlock's muscles shook and he dug his fingers against the concrete floor, feeling Moriarty's breath nauseatingly close to his face. He struggled to stand, and collapsed again. His eyes came across the bodies of his only three friends in the world, dead because of him. Pain crushed him, except not physical. Mental anguish ripped himself apart.   
"Pain, heartbreak, loss... death..." Moriarty sang. "It's all good, Sherlock."  
A choked cry escaped Sherlock's throat.   
"Why don't you ever feel pain?" Sherlock choked out.  
"Oh, Sherlock, you always feel pain. Always. But that doesn't mean you have to fear it," Moriarty said, with an air of placidness.  
Sherlock gasped for breath. He rarely cried; last time he had, it was understandable, as he'd been shot. Now, he was entirely overwhelmed mentally and physically by antagonising pain. Tears threatened but he did not give them the relief of falling.   
"Oh my god, Sherlock is crying, this is amazing," Moriarty said, gleefully. Sherlock pressed his forehead against the floor, desperate for some of the pain to fade.  
Moriarty towered over him and gave him a glassy smile, and when he spoke next, the words permanently echoed in Sherlock's mind. "Did you miss me?"

 

_______

*************

Sherlock started up, face to face with Peggy, trembling, still on the floor. Her face was creased with worry.  
"Are you ok?" She asked, her eyes wide with concern.   
He looked at her and there was pure horror in his eyes. Peggy didn't know what to say; if he'd been through anything like she had been though, words of consolation would fall on deaf ears. He was in numb silence.   
Peggy got up and took out her anger on the guy who was still yelling that she broke his ankle. She slammed her high heel into his shin.  
"Say one more word and I will break every bone in your body while naming them," Peggy spat with hatred.   
The guy recoiled.   
"Who do you take orders from?" Peggy demanded.  
"Nobody says the name..."  
"Well you will, and you will say it right bloody now, or shall we start with the femur?" Peggy pressed her heel menacingly on his knee.  
The guy quickly spoke. "Jim. Jim Moriarty."  
Sherlock shut his eyes. Peggy was disbelieving.   
"Really. Have you spoken to him?"   
"Yes, yes, I did. Today. On the phone. He said that your friend there would come, and to inject him with this." He passed over the needle.  
"What do you put in the injections?"   
"I am not even sure. Deliriant drugs," the guy said.  
"Why were you hurting innocent people?"   
"To draw you both out," he replied.  
"And why are we not homicidal?"  
"We gave you both a different drug mixture. My employer didn't want you both to kill yourselves. He said that that would make the game less fun."  
Peggy suppressed her urge to still crack his femur. "And when will your precious employer show his face?"  
"When he's ready for you both."

*************

221B never had been so beautiful and inviting. Peggy and Sherlock returned two days prior, and had spoken to no one about their experiences. Sherlock fell back into moody silence, and Peggy began to follow suit.   
They sat quietly in the living room, one afternoon, three days later.   
"Sherlock...?"  
"Hmmm?"  
"Are you alright?"  
"I'll find a way to be," he said, a faint and rueful smile playing at his lips. "What about you?"  
"I'll find a way to be."

*************

The airplane touched down on the runway of London International Airport. A flight attendant reached in the compartment above one particular seat, got the bag down and handed it to the passenger.  
"I hope you have a pleasant stay in London, Ma'am," the attendant said.  
Oh, I know I will," a feminine, voice said, tainted with a Russian accent. She looked up at the attendant and smiled.

*end of chapter 3*


	7. The 89 Case Part 1

Peggy was attempting to tidy 221B. It wasn't disheveled, more like comfortably cluttered. To the ordinary observer, it was messy. Peggy knew that it was 'controlled chaos'. Everything had a specific place. She picked up on the locations quickly.  
Peggy had adjusted to the life there within a few days. Never expect anything 'normal' to happen, was the first rule she's learned. Normality was a rare event at 221B. It wasn't uncommon to have clients in the middle of the night, and several times, the actual murderer had come in. Peggy spent more time at 221B than she did her own flat across the hall. She'd lived there 3 months, and hadn't even finished unpacking. 

  
A role that Peggy quickly had to assume was a maternal role with Sherlock. With John gone with Mary most of the time, someone had to make sure Sherlock didn't kill himself or anyone else. Peggy had never been one to encompass copious amounts of patience, and Sherlock put it frequently to the test. He was as equally stubborn and independent as she was, which often caused quarrelling between them. The arguments always had a touch of humour to them, and they both began to rather enjoy their disputes.

  
A month had passed since the Yorkshire case. Neither had spoken about it since, as though there was now a silent agreement between them. They finally were developing a friendship, one of respect and mutual understanding, like he had with John. Peggy had realised there was something oddly satisfying about being liked by someone who hates everyone.  
Her heart still carried the burden of Steve. The Yorkshire case had only brought her former feelings to the surface. She had thought she would be able to move on and let go of her regret, however her mind was incapable of letting him go. Not yet.  
A fleeting thought of Steve passed through Peggy's mind, and she quickly got back to cleaning. Her work was futile, as she was too preoccupied in her thoughts.

  
She opened the window, for some fresh air, and saw a large school bus pull up, and a flock of children spread into Speedy's, down below.

  
"Sherlock."

  
No answer, as he stared into space.

  
"Sherlock!" Snapped Peggy, to get his attention.

  
"Hmm?"

  
"What is with all the kids about on a school day?" She figured he knew. Sherlock seemed to know everything.

  
He did. "It's one of those field holiday days today and tomorrow."

  
Peggy nodded, and watched the children get back on the bus.

  
"Do you like kids?" She asked him.

  
"Only certain ones."

Peggy made a sound of agreement. "If you ever got married, would you have children?"

  
Sherlock considered it. "They don't sound particularly appealing."

 

Peggy's lips formed a slight smile. "We have similar tastes in that subject then."

  
Sherlock smiled, which was a rare sight. Peggy dusted off her hands and shut the window.

  
"I'm going to go move in a bit more."

  
Sherlock glanced over, in silent acknowledgment of her words. Peggy crossed the hall to her flat.

  
A sigh escaped her lips, as she looked at the completely empty flat. It was of the same floor plan as 221B, but a bit brighter. She hesitated, unsure where to start. She had only been sleeping at her flat, and even then, during a few long cases, she fell asleep in 221B.

  
Peggy looked around the flat. She'd only seen it in the full light of day a few times, so it felt as though it was a new flat altogether. Boxes stacked on the floor. Her clothes, she never bothered to fold, lay on a heap in the single chair in the living room. Her bed was bare, except for a few sheets. The kitchen was empty, and the lone piece of fruit looked like a mouse had taken a bite out of it. Peggy cringed and threw it out.

  
She put her hands on her hips, and peered around 223A. Standing here won't get anything done, she thought to herself. She considered calling Ana to help her, but decided against it, as Ana would no doubt drag her to buy new furniture.  
Peggy sat down, cross legged, on the floor next to a box in the living room. Her few sentimental belongings. Peggy unpacked them from the box with great care. A photo of her brother. Peggy quickly cast it aside, refusing to dwell on that as well. Her most treasured novel. She pulled out her grandmother's bracelet, a delicate gold chain, with a tiny crystal dangling off of it. Peggy took out a stack of letters, from various family members and friends. On top was a letter from Angie Martinelli, who always brought a smile to Peggy's face.

  
It'd been ages since Peggy had seen Angie. Quite literally. While Peggy had been frozen in time with Ana and Jarvis during... _the_ event, the rest of the world had aged around her. Including Angie. When Peggy had woken up, she had been in for a massive shock; she was still thirty and Angie was now in her nineties. Angie's personality hadn't aged a day, however. She still wrote Peggy letters and Peggy elated when she saw them in her mailbox.

  
Peggy's fingers enclosed around a locket necklace, one she knew very well. Only recently, she had stopped wearing it. Part of her told herself not to open it, but temptation is stronger than reason. She opened it, and a handsome, smiling face gazed back.

  
Emotion pressed at Peggy's eyes. She bit her lip, and swallowed hard. A dull throb was in Peggy's throat. She wanted to part from him, she wanted to let the wind carry her feelings away.

  
Except poeticism wasn't practical. The mind could not be easily bargained with.

  
Peggy let out a shaky breath and put the necklace on.

*************  
Dottie Underwood, cold, angular, austere, with a touch of a Russian accent, came into her hotel room.

  
Something was amiss. She paused, her fingers sliding into her purse and curling around her gun. She scanned the hotel room, and her eyes fell onto a single sheet of paper. It simply read a phone number. Dottie hesitated. If someone was clever enough to break on here, there was no reason she couldn't give them the satisfaction of a simple phone call.

  
She dialled the number. It picked up after two rings.

  
The voice that answered, stunned Dottie. "Jim?" she asked incredulously.

*************

Dottie Underwood never considered herself to be a full on Hydra agent. Especially since _the_ event. Hydra had changed their ideals while she'd been frozen; she didn't agree with most of them. When she'd awakened, she'd had to adjust to more than just a new century; she had to adjust to a new line of work. Stakes were higher as an assassin than they had been in the 1940s. Weapons were more advanced. Dottie had taught herself how to use them all in one night, knowing that she could never explain to an employer that she'd been frozen in time for 70 years and just thawed and that's why she didn't know how to use a laser sniper. It didn't even sound believable in her own head and she'd actually lived through it.

  
She considered herself to be a free assassin for hire now. Arouse enough interest in the job, give her what she wanted in exchange, and you would have her for hire. Dottie was always cautious with who she worked for, however, and that always put a good word in for her, with other assassin employers.

  
Dottie walked causally into the nursery section of the book store. A female aid came over.

  
"Do you need any help finding anything?"

  
Dottie's eyes scanned the books until they landed on a specific one. She turned and smiled sweetly at the aid.  
"I've already found what I was looking for."

  
"We'll have a nice day then!" The woman perkily said and went to greet the swarm of children that entered, the ones from the bus.

  
"Oh I will," Dottie whispered softly to herself, a mischievous smile playing at her lips. She lived for this work.

*************

While Peggy unpacked, Mycroft paid a visit to his younger brother.

  
"How are we?" Mycroft inquired, walking right in.

  
Sherlock suppressed a devilishly sarcastic answer. "I never thought my well being was a concern of yours."

  
"Oh Sherlock, you know that I have some regard for you. I did get you to stop smoking," Mycroft said, sitting down across from Sherlock.

  
"Peggy stopped me," Sherlock said, particularly disliking the idea of acknowledging his brother as an intervener.

  
"And how is she?" Mycroft said with a pleasant smile.

  
"Not your concern either," Sherlock stated.

  
"Well you are beginning to make her my concern, Sherlock. Any person that is close to you must be monitored and kept from harm."

  
"I'll handle that

in my own."  
"We've seen how well that's worked out."

  
Sherlock fixed his eyes on his brother and didn't speak. Mycroft sighed.

  
"I only want the best for you." Mycroft rubbed his temples with his fingers.

  
"Really? Lovely. Then the door is that way," Sherlock said, gesturing.

  
Mycroft stood up. "Sherlock, be careful."

  
"Oh let me guess, you're going to mysteriously tell me why," Sherlock said with a glare.

  
"I don't have to be mysterious about it. You already know. An East Wind is coming. I don't want to see you or anyone you love, get hurt. You know what must be done. I don't think everyone will be able to adapt to the wind." Mycroft looked down at his brother significantly. Sherlock seemed both older and younger than Mycroft remembered. A wisdom was in his brother's eyes but there was a youthful fear that was more clear than ever as of late.  
"Sherlock, promise me one thing."

"What?" snapped Sherlock.

"Do what needs to be done, no matter what."

  
Sherlock didn't answer, and tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair.

*************

The doorbell rang downstairs, jolting Peggy out of her thoughts. She realised she hadn't moved in a half an hour, just sitting pensively, fingering her locket.

  
Mrs. Hudson was at the store, and there was a good chance Sherlock was thinking so hard, he hadn't even heard it, and even if he had, he wouldn't do anything about it. Peggy quickly clicked down the stairwell and opened the front door.

  
No one was there on the street. A single package rested on the doorstep. Peggy picked it up and looked at it.  
It was a paper package, with a red, engraved seal. Odd and completely out of place. Peggy regarded it with caution and instant suspicion. One thing hadn't changed in the agent world; if something seems out of place, it is and should be investigated at once. It hadn't exploded when she picked it up, which was a good sign. She felt the outline, and it resembled a book.

  
_Sherlock will know what to do_ , Peggy thought, and mounted the stairs into his apartment.

  
He was staring out the window, but turned at once when she came in.

  
"What's that?" He inquired, gazing at the package in her hands.

  
"I'm hoping you'll tell me."

  
Sherlock came over and took it from her. He recognised the package at once, with a sinking feeling. Something was different however.

  
He sniffed the package. "Perfume. A woman brought this, and she wrapped it. She was following instructions on how...over the phone..." He gazed at it from all angles. "Was dropped off only a few minutes ago."

  
"How did you know it was over the phone?"

  
"Folded with one hand, clearly. She's right handed but she used her left, so she held the phone with her right hand, out of instinct. Asymmetrical folding. She hasn't done this before. See the double creases? Was done twice. She has precision, however, the creases are sharp, so she's skilled with her hands."

  
Peggy listened attentively and watched his deduction. "It's safe to open?"

"I suppose so," Sherlock said. His nimble fingers slid open the seal and pulled out a single book.

"Fairy tales?" Peggy incredulously asked.

  
Sherlock seemed disturbed. He flipped it open and three stories were circled: one about a fox and the other about a old woman that lived in a shoe with her children and the other was Snow White. Peggy thought it was rather trivial, but Sherlock's face read otherwise.

  
"Sherlock, tell me what you're thinking."

  
Sherlock bit his lip, thinking. He spoke absently.

  
"Jim Moriarty used a book like this to give me a clue to a kidnapping he did; he loved to give me 'puzzles'. He was obsessed with fairy tales. His alibi name was Richard Brooke, which in German means 'Reichenbach'. He got the press against me, eventually, because he said, "I love newspapers. Fairy tales. And pretty grim ones too.'" Sherlock seemed caught up in his own world again.

  
Peggy looked at the cover. Grimm's fairy tales. She began to have a cold realisation. This man, Moriarty, wasn't just a name. It wasn't an idea of a person. There was a very real psychopath out there, and he was targeting Sherlock again.  
"What we're the three circled?" Sherlock asked.

  
Peggy flipped it open. "Snow White, The Wonderful Musician, and that one about the old chick who lived in a shoe. Creep."  
Sherlock said suddenly, "Why is he doing this?"

  
He was actually asking Peggy a question. She hid her surprise. "He's dead, Sherlock. You saw him shoot himself. It's his network, I'm sure."

  
Sherlock shook his head. "Miss Carter, I have always been able to rely on what I see, and make reasonable and logical deductions. Moriarty has always...done something to that. Defied logic and I'm thinking, even gravity."

  
Peggy gazed at Sherlock. A strong instinct told her that not even a gunshot could stop Moriarty.

*************

Peggy sat back in her bed, that night. There was something odd about having those three stories underlined, an Peggy decided to find out why. She flipped open the book, and thumbed through the pages. She glanced at the story The Wonderful Musician and her eyes scanned the page. A fox faked his death in a rather horrific fashion.

  
_Morbid stories for children_ , thought she.

  
Her eyes fell onto the excerpt, **The wolf drew down the little tree, bit the cord (from the noose) in two, and freed the fox, who went with him to take revenge on the musician.**

Peggy's fingertips began to perspire on the page, she was gripping it so tightly. She flipped over to Snow White and the first page it turned to was flagged.

  
There was a quote underlined, simply reading:

**" Snow White shall die," cried the queen. "'Even if it would cost me my life."**

Peggy snapped the book shut and turned out the light.

*************

Peggy was awoken by rapid knocking at her door. She turned over and saw it was five o'clock in the morning. Much too early to be human. In this time of year, it was still dark out. She sighed, pulled on her silk bathrobe and opened the door.  
She wondered if Sherlock ever slept. He seemed exactly the same alert self he was at midnight last night.  
"It's five in the morning, someone better be dead." Peggy said, leaning against the doorway.

  
"Come look at something."

  
Peggy groaned slightly but followed him to 221B.

  
Lestrade and Sally were there, on a laptop. The nodded hello to Peggy.

  
"See? The bus doesn't go back last night and isn't there this morning," Lestrade pointed to security footage. Peggy and Sherlock looked at the footage.

  
Bus 89 didn't return the night before, back to the school, and wasn't in the lot this morning. Footage almost static-ed out at six yesterday evening, when the other buses arrived at the school.

  
"With all the buses coming in and out, and children everywhere, no one noticed until security saw today," Sally explained.  
"Give me the timeline of events," Sherlock ordered.

  
"Alright, um...Yesterday and today the school scheduled two days of a field holiday. Bus 89 took 45 children around various places in London yesterday, leaving at 6 in the morning. It was set to return at six that night, but that's when the footage became staticky and no one noticed the bus not arrive. The parents called Scotland Yard at nine last night, and the lot didn't have bus 89. We only found a lead this morning."

  
"Alright, keep going."

  
"The last place the children were seen was a bookstore. No one saw them leave. The only woman working there was killed by a blow to the head and there was no one else in the store, apparently. Then, this morning, the bus driver was found by the side of the road, shot in the head."

  
"Does Molly have it at the morgue?" Sherlock abruptly asked.

  
"Yes, why?"

  
"Just curious."

  
Peggy folded her arms across her chest and gazed down at the footage again. "Did you pull up stoplight footage?"

  
"Simultaneously went to static all night. No one could figure out why. Only this morning did we think there was a connection."

  
"Anyone in the 45 children that held any importance? Political parent? Wealthy? Involved with shady people?" Sherlock's blue eyes scanned the footage again.

  
"Just ordinary suburban kids," Sally said. "We ran full background checks on the children, parents, and anyone close to them. Worst that ever happened was one boy's father got a speeding ticket four years ago."

  
"Hostage situation to trigger the specific target to come for them," Sherlock said authoritatively.

  
"We have nothing to go off of." Lestrade looked exhausted. "Those children could be Ireland right now." He ran a hand through his silver hair. "God, I need some coffee," he said under his breath.

"They're not in Ireland," Sherlock calmly said. "Not yet, that is."

  
Sally wasn't convinced. "Yeah, let's trust the psychopath in the room, shall we?"

  
Peggy gave her a withering look. Sherlock simply ignored her altogether.

  
"I think we need to do a manhunt," Sally stated.

  
Lestrade was unsure. "Investigate every single place in England for them. Would be a major inconvenience and disruption for a lot of innocent people. But then, we could catch a kidnapper in the act."

  
"Don't," Sherlock said.

  
"We didn't ask you," Sally snapped.

  
"Well, you're going to," Sherlock said, firmly. "Don't go on a search, it will only make the kidnapper more resentful. Children and their lives are dangerous to bargain with. Allow Peggy and I to investigate."

  
Lestrade gave in. "Fine, but if one of those kids die because of you, you'll be dead from my hands."

  
"That would be incredibly ambitious of you. Come, Peggy, we have to go."

  
"Go where?"

  
"The morgue, of course."

*************

Peggy dutifully followed Sherlock into the morgue, underneath a laboratory at St. Bartholomew's hospital.

  
"Sherlock, it's five thirty in the morning, I'm not in the mood for dead people just yet," Peggy protested. She'd barely had time to even get dressed. She was fairly sure Sherlock would have just dragged her out the door with her still in her nightdress.

  
"We only have to get an autopsy report," Sherlock said, walking down the halls as if he knew them like the back of his hand. He held the door open for Peggy and she came into a sterile room, with several laboratory tables stretched out. A young, tiny, sweet looking brunette was making a note of something on a clipboard. She came over at once when she saw them.

  
"Ah Molly, lovely to see you," Sherlock said and kissed her cheek. Molly seemed pleased by this. Peggy watched, touching her necklace absently.

  
"Peggy Carter," Peggy said, shaking Molly's hand. Molly had a certain pure innocence about her, and Peggy could see why Sherlock liked her.

  
"Nice to finally meet you," Molly smiled at Peggy. She turned to Sherlock, adoration glittering in her eyes. "Here is the autopsy report."

Name: Christina Gates  
Age: 45  
Sex: Female  
Height: 5'3  
Weight: 128lbs  
Hair Colour: Black  
Nationality: Danish  
Skin Colour: Caucasian  
Cause of death: Gunshot to back of head.  
Weapon: One bullet of a 22. pistol. No other information is traceable at this moment.

Sherlock skimmed over the rest of it quickly. "Anything else?"

  
"No DNA traces. Nothing. Not even a sign of a struggle."

  
"Professional marksmen then," Peggy said. "Poor girl didn't know what hit her. The gun cannot be traced, I presume."

  
"None of that particular brand. It's Russian based, the scientists figure. They're still trying to run more tests as we speak."  
Molly kept smiling at Sherlock who smiled back. Peggy watched them, with curiosity. A few more remarks were made about the autopsy report and Molly assured them that she'd inform the two if anything else came in.

  
Sherlock and Peggy left shortly thereafter. Sherlock and Peggy got in the backseat on the taxi cab.

  
"She seems nice," Peggy approached.

  
"Molly? Oh yes. Quite." Sherlock nodded.

  
"She likes you," Peggy said, straightforwardly. She saw no reason to not to be. One thing she always could be with Sherlock was honest and forward.

  
"I know," Sherlock said, his tone almost tired sounding. "Human error."

  
*************

Peggy and Sherlock arrived back at the flat at six in the morning. He was pensive, and tapping his fingers against each other. Peggy went into the kitchen to make tea.

  
"Alright, run me through it." Peggy expectantly ordered, filling a pot.

  
Sherlock spoke slowing, thinking.

  
"Whoever did it had a short window of time. The bus driver always gets on first. She must have gotten in while the children were inside still. The killer came in through the back, and the driver no doubt thought it was just one of the children. The rest was easy for the killer. Then the killer had to hide the body. She only had about a five minute window to do so---"

  
"She?" Peggy set the two teacups down on the coffee table and curled up in the chair across from Sherlock.

"Yes, which leads me to my next point in the timeline. The killer had to look enough like the driver, so the children got on without hesitation. If it was someone else, like a man, or a different looking woman, the children wouldn't have gotten on. She got them to come in, then locked the door, so they wouldn't get out. So, our killer is of a similar bone build as the bus driver, black hair, thin and an expert marksman."

  
Those attributes rang clearly in Peggy's head. She knew one person who was an identical match to Sherlock's description. Peggy quickly dismissed the thought. Nothing could confirm that her suspect was there during _the_ event.

  
"And the woman in the store would HAVE to have been killed by an expert, because none of the children in there heard or saw. Children at that age are always bumping about and rustling around, leaving and lining up on the sidewalk. The killer still only had a few seconds, practically, to kill both her and the driver," Peggy figured. "It must have been an assassin of sorts."

  
"Quite right, Miss Carter."

  
"Are the children alive, Sherlock?" Peggy asked in a low voice.

  
Sherlock seemed confident they were. "She's using them to get to something else."

  
"Will she kill them?"

  
"Possibly, after a certain point."

Peggy chewed the inside of her cheek, quiet. The idea of children thrown into the mix made it all so much more dangerous. And idea passed over her.

  
"Sherlock, let's get going."

  
"Where to?"

  
"School, of course."

*************

 


	8. The 89 Case Part 2

The school was taped off and heavily guarded with policemen. Peggy and Sherlock strode right over.

  
"This area is restricted, no trespassing," a policeman informed them.

  
"We're private investigators, on a time sensitive case, if you'd please let us pass," Peggy quickly said.

  
"Peggy, pull rank," Sherlock ordered.

  
She gave him a confused look. He nodded. Peggy caught on at once.

  
"I'm Agent Margaret Elizabeth Carter, for the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division. This man and I are on a time sensitive case involving the safety of those children that are being held hostage. You can contact my superior Agent Philip Coulson if you have any further questions. Now, let us through, or Sir Mycroft Holmes will be summoned to deal with you with a more...blunt instrument." Peggy smiled, poisonously.

  
The man seemed nervous. "Go right on through."

  
Sherlock lifted the police tape and he and Peggy traversed the parking lot. Once they were out of earshot walking towards the school, Peggy spoke.

  
"Why are people so frightened of Mycroft?"

  
"He IS the whole of the British government," Sherlock replied. His eyes glanced over at her. "You were an agent for S.H.I.E.L.D? I just thought you worked with those Avengers fellows."

"That's a long story," Peggy answered, laughing slightly. "But yes. I was. How did you know I could pull rank?"

"I've been around you for three months. You thought I wouldn't have noticed you have the characteristics of someone in high government station?" 

"Touché."

They entered the school. It was completely empty. Peggy and Sherlock walked quickly though the hallways, toward the principal's office.

"Did you go to school here?" Peggy asked, curiously.

"I got expelled when I was ten," Sherlock answered. 

Peggy laughed. "That sounds like you."

"The two teachers were having an affair which I told them I knew about. Everyone here was entirely idiotic. I did get my first case here though."

Peggy was immensely curious. "Pray, tell."

"One of the fellow students cracked his head by the poolside. He slipped, everyone said. No one else was there to prove it. Something felt incredibly odd about it. He was completely dry, and there was no water on tiles. My suspicions proved correct and a fellow student did it to him. He's still in jail."

"Did you know the kid who did it right away?"

"I did. I didn't say anything for a while, he was the main supplier for my dug habit." Sherlock breathed out slowly. 

Peggy shook her head. "Addict since a kid?"

Sherlock slid his hands in his coat pockets and Peggy followed him up a flight of stairs. "I didn't have anything else to do," he simply said. 

Peggy didn't press any further. They came up to the principal's room. There was movement inside. Peggy knocked lightly. A male voice summoned them in.

An older man, artificially looking young, was sitting at the desk. He looked up, surprised. "Sherlock?" Peggy could physically feel Sherlock rolling his eyes. 

"Hello Mr. Newbury." Sherlock's tone was impatient.

"Haven't you grown up! I thought you were dead! Committed suicide, the papers said. 'Famed Detective Takes a Tumble,' one of the headlines said. I was rather worried they were correct. You always were the type, even when you were here."

Sherlock didn't blink, his blue eyes sparkling with intensity. Peggy felt a flush of anger towards Mr. Newbury. She still didn't know the full story of this 'suicide' and she noted it was something Sherlock was incredibly uncomfortable in dealing with. Even still, he showed no outward sign of any internal distress. His ability to remain this stoic always fascinated Peggy. 

Mr. Newbury smiled, largely. He had a Glasgow smile, which only added to the utter emptiness of it. Something about this man's fake display of benevolence irritated Peggy.

"Who is this lovely lady?" He shook Peggy's hand, with his own cold hand, and Peggy gingerly retracted. 

"Peggy Carter," she introduced, unwillingly. 

"You look exactly the same," Sherlock said to him, icily. "How much plastic surgery have you had done?"

Mr. Newbury laughed. "You haven't changed a bit. What's troubling you?"

Peggy spoke up. "What should be troubling YOU is that there are some of your students being held hostage."

He didn't look concerned in the least. "Oh yes. That is most concerning." He shifted some papers around his desk. "What are you doing? Why are you lot here?"

"We need to ask you a few questions." Sherlock was more than eager to leave, and he spoke without any enthusiasm. 

"And why am I doing this for you?"

"Because they make kid sized coffins, and I doubt you want to make a mass order of them," Sherlock matter-of-factly said, with his usual lack of tact.

Mr. Newbury paused, then gestured for them to sit. "What do you want to know?" 

"Where you here when bus 89 disappeared?"

"No one noticed it was," Mr. Newbury answered. "I most certainly didn't. I stayed inside and when I left, it was dark out."

"The children, what was their reputation with you?" Peggy inquired.

He thought a moment. "A few were more difficult but the rest were fine. I haven't had any problem children since you, Sherlock."

"I'm honoured." Sherlock sounded anything but.

  
"No, they were just ordinary children." Mr. Newbury shrugged. 

"And the driver?" Peggy asked.

"A nice girl, I suppose. Never really talked to her."

Peggy was running out of questions. This was getting them nowhere; Mr. Newbury didn't seem to know much at all, except how to be a creep. Sherlock had his hands clasped in front of him, a sign he was thinking about something. She kept talking, giving Sherlock time to think.

"Bus 89---" Peggy started to say. 

"89!" Sherlock suddenly said. He got up quickly. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Newbury." 

He strode out and Peggy chased after him. 

"What?" She wanted to know. 

He stopped in the middle of the hallway. "Think, Peggy, really think about the number."

Peggy sighed. "This better not be some ancient Greek numeral thing." 

"It's not. Just think."

Peggy had zero idea of what to even think about 89. "It's the 24th prime number, it's the atomic number of actinium..."

Sherlock was edgy, as he always got when he had an idea. He rested his hands on her face. "Focus, think!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Peggy shot. "Alphabetically it's letters would be H and I..." She stopped. "'Hi'."

"My point exactly."

"Oh my god."

His fingers drifted off her face, gazing intently and earnestly at her. "The first words Moriarty ever spoke to me was that."

"This is him?"

"He's not dead, Peggy. This is his 'hello'. I've been waiting for this. The final sign."

"What does this mean?" Peggy's voice was hushed.

"I haven't the slightest idea."

*************

They burst into 221B, and Sherlock picked up a pink cell phone on his desk.

"Why is your phone pink?" Peggy asked, catching her breath.

"Very long story," Sherlock replied. "I was given it, by Moriarty."

"Nice of him," Peggy rueful remarked.

The phone rang, as if on cue. Sherlock picked it up and set it on speakerphone.

It was a child's voice. "Please help!" It was a young girl, and she sounded like she was sobbing.

Peggy shot Sherlock a look of alarm. He spoke in a clear voice. "Tell us where you are."

"I can't," she wept. "If I do we'll all..." There was a pause and it sounded like someone was telling her something. Her voice was even more panicked when she started speaking again. "Or we all will get shot."

  
Peggy's took a deep breath to calm her heart. "What do the people that kidnapped you want?"

  
"You have to solve the puzzle and find us," the girl was all the girl said, in a watery voice.

  
"Alright, we're coming to find you. Stay calm." Sherlock's voice was unusually gentle.

  
The phone hung up. There was pause.

  
"Alright, we must have missed something," Sherlock said, his voice urgent. He got up abruptly.

  
Sherlock started pacing around the room. He was saying incoherent things. "What did I miss...Common denominator..."

  
Peggy stepped forward and caught his arm. "Sherlock..."

  
He looked down at her and she could feel his intense agitation.

  
"These innocent kids should not be the victims of Moriarty's rage towards me," Sherlock said, strained. Every so often, Sherlock had a slight outward sign of some human emotion. Just enough to keep him from being completely robotic. "One false step, and those children will most certainly be killed."

  
Peggy nodded. If there was one thing she picked up on, in his personality, it was that he possessed a massive guilt complex. "Sherlock, if there is one person who can find them, it's you. Of that I have no doubt."

  
His blue eyes studied her face. They truly were intoxicatingly blue and effortless to get lost in. Peggy dropped her gaze and touched her necklace subconsciously.

  
He seemed to be reprogrammed. He snapped to attention. "Alright, so Moriarty leaves a trail of clues, the girl said he left a puzzle. What has happened in the past 48 hours that may be connected."

  
Peggy started pacing with him, back and forth across the living room.

  
"The book!" Sherlock sharply said.

  
"That old woman that lived in the shoe story...A woman with children, in a shoe. That's the tying factor is children!" Peggy spoke earnestly.

  
Sherlock nodded, immensely curious and impressed with Peggy's deductive reasoning.

  
"There's an abandoned shoe factory, about an hour away, in the middle of nowhere. Ideal for hiding children, don't you think?" Sherlock's eyes were alight with his typical enjoyment of some drama.

  
One quick look between them sprang action. Peggy called Scotland Yard, and she and Sherlock hastily made an exit outside to fetch a taxi.

*************

The abandoned factory was an ideal hostage location. No one was around for miles. A heavy rain poured down, but Peggy and Sherlock completely ignored it. Peggy and Sherlock's cab no sooner pulled near, when the cell phone rang. Sherlock answered it quickly and Peggy listened to it.

  
It was the girl's voice. She sounded even worse than before. Peggy's heart gripped in sympathy for the traumatised child.   
"Please get us," she wept.

  
"We're on our way," Peggy said in a firm voice. She and Sherlock got out of the taxi, still talking in the phone.

  
"Put who is holding you hostage in the phone," Sherlock ordered.

  
"I can't," the girl said.

  
"Alright, tell us what they want."

  
"You," the girl simply said.

  
Sherlock's eyes flickered slightly. "Well, tell whoever it is that I'm here. They can let you go."

  
There was a muffled scream and a single gunshot went off. It was audible on both the phone, and even from outside the factory. Peggy jumped and Sherlock's eyes changed from calm to horrified. The phone hung up.

  
There wasn't time to wait for Scotland Yard. Peggy and Sherlock ran into the building and burst inside.

  
It was large, and there was no sounds once they were inside. Peggy and Sherlock quickly assessed the empty situation and Sherlock spoke.

  
"The rooftop."

  
Peggy caught on. "That's how we heard the shot, the kids can't get down, and are cornered. Genius."

  
"Rooftops are most convenient for confrontations," Sherlock remarked.

  
The staircase to the flat rooftop was easy to find, but it felt like eternity. Peggy spotted a heavily armed agent standing at the base of the metal stairs. She drew Sherlock aside, out of sight.

  
"This is my job," Peggy said. She took off her heels. Peggy removed her necklace, unwillingly. She handed her things to Sherlock one by one. She unstrapped a rather large knife from her thigh strap under her skirt. Sherlock watched her, curiously.

  
"You were wearing that all day?"

  
"Always, Mr. Holmes." A playful smirk played at her lips.

  
Peggy knew what to do. She had done this countless times before. It was an exhilarating thrill to be back doing work like this.   
She came up next to the guy, from behind the metal stairs.

  
"Hi."

  
The man whipped around and saw her standing behind the staircase, peering at him through the metal steps. He instantly jumped down and tried to attack Peggy.

  
'Tried' is an accurate word to describe men fighting her. They tried extremely hard, they truly did. They always put in a good effort.

  
Peggy just so happened to be better than them. Faster thinker, quick to act, and a hundred times more clever.   
Her bare feet stepped lightly over the beaten man and Sherlock joined her at once.  
"S.H.I.E.L.D taught you that?"

  
"I taught myself," Peggy answered, as they hastily made their ascent to the rooftop.

  
Rain was falling on the huddled mass of children, shoved in the corner of the rooftop. A male agent held them all at gunpoint. They saw a young girl, her leg bleeding heavily, the victim of the gunshot. Peggy felt sickly at the sight.

  
Sherlock was entirely calm about approaching. Peggy followed suit, wiping way any emotion.

  
"You called for us?"

  
The agent turned and faced them. He was a teenager, couldn't be older than seventeen.

  
"You can let the children go now. You've got us, and we're the ones you want," Sherlock placidly informed. He glanced over at the bleeding girl, and a flicker of worry crossed his eyes. He turned his attention back to the man.  
The agent shook his head. "Well, now they've seen too much."

  
There was a buoyancy to his tone that Peggy loathed. Apprehension crawled up her arms, as it always did when she sensed something dangerous would happen. One false step and everything would go awry.

  
"Scotland Yard will be here in six minutes," Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back, utterly at ease.

  
So it seemed. The outward appearance was that he was at complete ease. Everyone was unbeknownst to his internal turmoil and overwhelming concern in that moment. Peggy saw his hands twitch slightly. 

  
The agent examined his gun, and then loaded ammo. Peggy could feel her pulse accelerate. Sherlock exhaled slowly, his breath misting in the cold air.

  
Her mind was working out a hundred different possibilities on what to do. She still had her knife, but that was rendered pointless from this distance.

  
Words are a far more powerful weapon. Sherlock and Peggy silently and mutually decided to converse with the agent, instead. The amount of trust that needed to be involved was overwhelming. If one of them said something that the agent deemed irritating, both of their work would be for nothing.

  
Peggy said, choosing her words with care, "If you would, leave the children alone, and deal with us instead."

  
"They kids will talk, you idiot," snapped the agent.

  
"If you take the time to shoot them all, it will be too late for you lot to escape," Sherlock said. "Scotland Yard will be here in three minutes. You haven't the time. Besides, murder can be quite exhausting and those are a lot of people to kill. You won't have the energy to get away."

  
The agent shifted his weight from foot to foot.

  
"I'm not afraid to be caught."

  
"No, but it's not in your contract is it?" Peggy went on.

  
The agent paused. "I'd love to put a bullet in your brain right now."

  
"That would be incredibly ambitious of you," Peggy smoothly answered. "But from what I know of your employer, he doesn't want us dead."

  
"Don't shoot the kids, and we'll make arrangements so you don't get put in an electric chair," Sherlock said.

  
"Don't be stupid. Why would I let any of you live? Do you think I have a shred of pity in me?"

  
"I do," Sherlock replied.

  
The agent stared blankly.

  
"I think you're just a kid," Sherlock spoke carefully. "Both of our parents died of an alcohol overdose when you were ten. You couldn't quite believe that your parents would do that, willing to leave you alone like that. Then a man, a powerful man, offered you a job that would give you what feels like power. You make people kneel for mercy." Sherlock was taking slow steps towards him. Peggy held perfectly still, not breathing or moving. "You're only seventeen. You have plenty to live for. You could have a long and happy life. Find love, get a real job, have children."

"I can't," the agent replied, weakly. He was done however, he wasn't going to fight it.

  
Sherlock reached over and took the gun. Peggy exhaled a sigh of relief. The agent sat down on the concrete rooftop, looking exhausted and small. But possibly more at peace? Peggy couldn't tell.

  
The sirens of Scotland Yard Police Force came forward.

*************

The rain drifted to a stop, and night fell on the dark day. Scotland Yard brought the children to St. Bartholomew's hospital where they got reunited with their parents and questioned. The girl who was shot, fortunately, was in a stable condition and her blood loss was not major. The teenage agent was let off easy by Sherlock's request; five years of jail and then a parole officer. Peggy escaped questioning about the clues and Moriarty, by tucking away onto the rooftop of St. Bartholomew's.

  
The building was tall, and Peggy had an incredible view of the cityscape of London. The air was cold but clear thanks to the pouring rain. Peggy inhaled the air, filing her lungs with the crispness, clearing out her mind. The day had been chaotic and confusing. Those children were probably going to be in therapy the rest of their lives, but Peggy was relieved to know they were alive and unscathed physically.

  
And the woman that kidnapped them and delivered them to the building. One of the children described her as, "Dark haired, and really good at hitting people." Vague enough, from children in shock, but Peggy felt a nagging concern.

  
She walked over to the edge of the flat rooftop and peered out over the vista of London. She'd been there four months now, and she still had not gotten a chance to truly breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart. Nighttime was certainly the most spectacular time to breathe in London. The expanse of the city, bright against the night sky, was truly alive in its own way. The cold wind whipped at her hair, tingling her skin, but she felt awake for the first time in months.

  
Steve would have loved this, Peggy thought, a familiar throb returning to her throat. She touched the cold locket on her neck. The bright city lights became blurred. Peggy dried her eyes on her coat sleeve.

  
She heard footsteps behind her, and Sherlock stood next to her. He no doubt saw she had been crying, he made no mention of it, which Peggy appreciated.

  
"Escaped the questioning?" Peggy asked, trying to sound light. Her voice sounded more watery than she would have preferred. She cleared her throat.

  
"Took some effort, but yes, I stressed the point that you and I are rendered useless to this case."

  
"Thank you."

  
"Of course."

  
If there was one thing Peggy appreciated about Sherlock, it was how he did not feel the need to make conversation or chat. He was perfectly content to say nothing for hours, occasionally days. When he did speak, it was never over anything trivial, but always had a point or an intelligent remark.

  
He spoke, after several minutes, meditatively. "Breathing in London again?"

  
"It was about time. Nice spot to do it, too."

  
"I couldn't agree more."

  
There was another pause.

  
"When will you tell me about Moriarty? Really tell me about him," Peggy wanted to know. "If we are to work together, I need to know the facts."

  
Sherlock thought for a long moment. "I anticipate that you will know about him sooner than later."

  
Peggy nodded, quietly. They fell into comfortable silence again.

  
"Quite a day we had," Peggy remarked. Which was an immense understatement.

  
"Miss Carter, when you agreed to this position, you did not agree to have to deal with the effects of one of the most dangerous psychopaths this planet has had. Lestrade can take you as a detective for himself."

  
"I understand completely that I am getting involved in cases being controlled by the most dangerous criminal mastermind to date, but that doesn't change anything. They are cases, they need to be solved." Peggy's voice became more earnest. "I want to help find this Moriarty fellow and make him pay for his crimes. I am a government agent, this is what I do best."

  
"When Moriarty finds out you are working with me, you will be a direct target."

  
"I know I will," Peggy answered, truthfully. "But I worked at one of the most clandestine government agencies in the world. I know what it's like to be a target. I am not afraid to be hunted. I am going to help find this man, and he will be crossed off."

Sherlock looked over at Peggy and a touch of admiration came over him. She was truly not like any other woman he'd known. She was impressive, not only in character, but also as an agent, which was incredibly valuable. Sherlock viewed few people in high regard, in fact, just John. Peggy was slowly gaining more and more favour in his eyes.

  
Sherlock said, "You are not like any other woman I've come to know."

  
He wasn't flirting, he was making a fact and voicing his mind. Peggy knew that. She was still immensely flattered. Sherlock did not randomly make compliments and he typically was not even agreeable to people out of his inner circle.   
"I hope I stay that way," Peggy said, keeping her tone light.

  
"I am rather convinced you will."

  
Peggy smiled at him and he returned it. Nothing else was needed to be said. There was nothing left to do but savour the quiet moment, in preparation for the East Wind.

  
Sherlock recalled the line of the story that Mycroft always quoted to him.

  
_'An East Wind is coming...It's coming to get you.'_

 

*end of chapter 4*


	9. The Clandestine Murder Part 1

Moriarty did not effect every aspect and case that Sherlock and Peggy got presented with. There was lulls, where there were no clues, no sign of him whatsoever. The pauses were chilling. At first it had been almost pleasant, occasionally, to have a case here or there, not involving him. Sherlock and Peggy had gotten into some minor cases which were a reprieve. Two months passed since the last case involving Moriarty. Peggy was growing listless. Sherlock was in one of his moods where he did not speak for hours. No cases interested either of them.

  
Ana and Jarvis invited Peggy to come for tea, one afternoon, to rescue Peggy from her boredom. They were house-sitting one of their friend's mansions on the outskirts of London. It was massive, practically deserving of it's own postal code. London was able to be viewed in the distance, but they were surrounded by acres of beautiful and peaceful land. Peggy stepped up onto the front step and gazed about the nature surrounding her. The air was thick, a sign of rain to come. Peggy was still growing used to all of the constant rain; life in America had severely conditioned her to dry weather.

Peggy rang the doorbell and a tall man answered the door. "Who are you and what is your business of arriving here?" he implored in a droning voice. He couldn't be older than fifty but he seemed older. Peggy noticed his haircut reflected a retired man from the army. 

"Peggy Carter, I'm here to see—"

  
"PEGGY!" An enthusiastic cry echoed across the marble foyer.

  
"—her," Peggy finished, breaking into a smile. Ana pushed the butler aside and embraced Peggy.

  
Ana lead Peggy on a tour of the house, which took an hour. During that time, Peggy got impression Ana was a bit bored, despite enjoying the luxury. Ana was unaccustomed to being waited on by maids, having chefs cook every meal, and gardeners keep the yards to perfection, none of whom let her get her hands dirty. Jarvis didn't like the fact that the maids cleaned differently than he believed they should.

  
"Must be nice," Ana said, as she and Peggy reclined on the sofa in one of the hundred living rooms, "to always be so wrapped up in thrilling cases."

  
"It's enjoyable," Peggy replied, amused as always at Ana's eagerness. She reminded Peggy of an overexcited puppy, sometimes. "I love the thrill of it all."

  
"I hate to complain, while I'm treated so lushly, but...I really am bored. I loved going on that case with you and Sherlock on the boat."

  
"It was most fun to have you come along."

  
"I miss adventures," Ana wistfully said. "I miss Sherlock."

Peggy raised her eyebrows. Ana waved her hand and laughed. "He funny, smart, and his eyes...he's dreamy..."

"He's alright," Peggy replied with a playful smirk.

Ana shook her head. "You're crazy, Peggy. If I was single, believe me, I'd be all over that."

"ANA!"

Ana laughed lightly, shrugging her slim shoulders. 

"We're focused on our work, I can wholeheartedly assure you," Peggy insisted.

  
"Oh, how is that going?"

  
"You heard about the hostage situation?"

  
"Hard to miss. You and Sherlock work well together."

"We're compatible," Peggy answered.

Ana looked amused. "Anything else on that guy...what's his name? Moriarty?"

Peggy's fingers fiddled with the tassel on the sofa. "No, nothing."

"That's good?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why is he so dangerous?" 

Peggy thought for a moment. "He is a psychopath and a genius. He isn't afraid to kill anyone. And Ana, I think he has a new asset." 

Ana tilted her head.

Peggy lowered her voice. "One other person besides us survived."

Ana's mouth parted slightly. "She didn't?"

Peggy bit her lip, before she said, "I'm going to keep investigating the situation. But I have an odd feeling that Moriarty has an enhancement in the field. And she's not from this decade."

Ana was stunned. "Impossible. We were the only ones that survived."

"There was one body taken from the scene before S.H.I.E.L.D got there."

Ana was both worried and intensely interested. "Does Sherlock know?"

"I haven't said anything."

"Does he know about you?" She hung significance on the 'you'.

  
"I'll tell him soon," Peggy replied.

  
"You've been staying there for six months and said nothing?"

  
"No, not yet." Peggy sighed. "I will soon."

  
"Soon do what?" A voice repeated. Peggy and Ana turned to see Jarvis standing in the doorframe. 

"Nothing, darling. What do you need?" Ana asked.

"Did you order a cab, love?"

"No, why?"

"There is a man at the door, he insists you did."

Ana was confused. "I did no such thing. Send him away."

The doorbell rang again, one long ring. Jarvis hastened to the door. Ana and Peggy heard him open the door, and a loud thud. A girl-like shriek came from the foyer. 

Ana and Peggy ran into the foyer and saw Jarvis standing over the body of a dead man.

"I opened the door and he just fell on, oh god the carpet" Jarvis stammered. He backed away, gripping the railing of the stairwell.

Peggy stooped down beside the body and assessed it. In his twenties, rather attractive, enjoys reading. From his hands, they clearly said not taxi driver, but something else, no doubt shady. The knife was stabbed into his back, simply and cleanly. That read professional, there was no hesitation. Whoever did this must be somewhat experienced. Peggy stood up.

"Is he dead?" Ana inquired with more excitement in her voice than suitable for the situation.

"It would seem so, wouldn't it?" Jarvis snapped, edgy. He gazed at Peggy. "What happened?"

"Stabbed, between the time you went to fetch Ana and I." Peggy went out on the front steps and took a quick glance around. Not a soul to be seen. The mansion was in a particularly flat area of the moorland, no place to hide for miles. Peggy hastily walked around the exterior of the house and saw no sign of any life. No birds sang, it was utterly silent. So much as another person breathing, Peggy would be able to hear. Peggy curiously glanced inside the 'taxi' seeing nothing.   
Empty silence and not a soul or any life to be seen. 

"The killer wouldn't have had much time," Peggy murmured. She went back inside to the curious Ana and the nervous Jarvis.

"And it's not suicide?" Jarvis asked, almost hopefully.

"Jarvis, really?" Peggy couldn't keep slight exasperation out of her tone. "Why on earth would you kill yourself in the back? I don't even think he could reach there."

"I don't know, you're the smart one here." He bit his lip. "Can we get him off the carpet? All the bleach in the world won't get that up, if we don't move him soon."

Peggy went back inside, locked the door and looked at the corpse. "Where would you feel comfortable putting a body in this house, Jarvis?"

"A bed, perhaps," Ana piped up. "There is enough to choose from."

Peggy nodded. "Get the gardeners to help move him to a bedroom then call the Yard."

"Where are you going?"

"To get Sherlock."

*************

Peggy walked into 221B and was greeted by a Siamese cat, who rubbed at her ankles, meowing. Peggy's brow knitted together. "Sherlock...?" She carefully questioned.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair with four cats purring and curled up on him.

"I don't remember there being cats before I left." Peggy raised her eyebrow. 

"Oh, yes. I may have accidentally adopted five cats." Sherlock's long fingers stroked one of the cat's head. It purred, contentedly.

Peggy took a moment to process this, before kneeling down next to the Siamese cat at her feet, petting it. "Where'd you get them?"

"Mrs. Hudson found them out back, in a box. I took them inside. I doubted you'd mind," Sherlock answered.

"I don't mind, of course, I just never thought you liked cats."

"You never thought I'd be so charitable," Sherlock guessed.

"I suppose I was mildly surprised," Peggy answered. She straightened up. "Will you take a case?"

Sherlock gazed at her with interest.

"In his twenties, stabbed in the back, posing as a taxi driver, where Ana and Jarvis are staying. There was a one minute interval that gave the murderer time to run, but I haven't a clue where." Peggy cut to the important information. Other details were unnecessary.

Sherlock nodded, thinking. "Why do you think I'd be remotely interested?"

"You randomly adopted five cats, I'm getting the impression you are a bit bored."

"I don't leave the flat unless it's a seven."

"I'd say it's a seven," Peggy answered. 

Sherlock and Peggy had categorised crime scenes by their interest and severity, ten being the maximum. 

A pause. Sherlock seemed to mentally drift a moment, absently running his fingers across one of the cat's back. Peggy waited, listening to the clock tick. 

Sherlock's mind drifted back into the room. "Why are you still standing there?"

Peggy let a sigh escape her lips. "You didn't answer me."

"Yes I did."

"No you didn't."

"I thought I did."

"You mentally went to Narnia or wherever it is you go again." 

"Oh? Sorry. Of course, yes. I'll go with you."

After all, he did have time to kill.

*************

Sherlock and Peggy arrived at the mansion half after five, and Ana was elated at the sight of him.

"Oh my goodness, it's so lovely to see you again!" She squealed. She was in good spirits, for having a dead body tucked away on one of her beds. Jarvis, meanwhile, looked peaked and nervous, a trembling hand holding a teacup.

Sherlock smiled at her, and after one second of pleasantries, inquired as to where the body was.

"Upstairs bedroom on the left," Ana replied.

He nodded and walked up the stairs. Ana and Peggy followed behind. Jarvis declared he'd rather not join them and went to make tea.

"He's so cute," Ana hissed at Peggy, her eyes bright and shining.

"Oh my god, Ana." Peggy shook her head to hide her amusement. 

The corpse was bleeding out on the bed, but Ana didn't bat an eyelash as she showed them in. "There he is."

Sherlock's eyes skimmed over the body. "It seems he was a hitman," Sherlock commented. 

"A hitman?" Peggy came over and looked with Sherlock. He pointed to a squiggly design on the man's finger.

"Is that a...Moriarty hitman?" Peggy spoke in a low voice.

Sherlock shook his head. "Moriarty doesn't brand his. His look like average civilians."

"Fascinating," Peggy breathed.

"Isn't it just?" Sherlock said, equally interested. "Why was a hitman at your door, Ana?"

"I haven't a clue."

"The owners of this house, do they do anything remotely shady?"

"I've known the McLaughlin's my whole life. A harmless couple, as far as I know," Ana said. "Quiet."

"Quiet ones you must look out for," Sherlock remarked. "Why..."

He trailed off, lost in thought. Suddenly, a young female voice cried out, "Mrs. Jarvis! Come quick!"

Ana fluttered down the stairs, Peggy and Sherlock close behind her. The maid stood next to the slumped form of Jarvis, on the sofa. A cup of half drunken tea was on the table next to him.

Ana gasped and Peggy, heart pounding, checked his pulse. Steady, consistent. Peggy exhaled.

  
"He seems to be asleep."

  
"I can't wake him up," Ana said, her voice pitching with panic.

Sherlock, meanwhile, sniffed the cup tea and turned to Ana quizzically.

"Ana, do you smoke?"

"God, no," was Ana's distracted reply. 

Sherlock took a small sip of the tea and nodded. "Crack." 

Ana and Peggy turned from Jarvis, startled.

"Are you sure?" Ana implored anxiously.

Sherlock gave her a significant look.

"He would know, I assure you, Ana," Peggy said, slightly in a disapproving manner. Sherlock sighed.

"You're husband was drugged, Ana. He'll be fine. In fact, I'm sure he's sleeping quite well right now. When he wakes up, he may be slightly high, but it'll wear off fast. He only had a small amount."

Ana sat heavily on the sofa, stunned but relieved. "How on earth did that get in his tea?"

"It would have been easy to mask in the tea sugar dish," Peggy said, catching on at once. "You use the tea sugar. that the McLaughlin's have?"

  
"Yes, today we found a container of sugar in the cupboard. Jarvis was first to use it."

"Drugs," Sherlock murmured, thinking. "Drugs, drugs, drugs..."

"Maybe it had something to do with the hitman? They were drug smugglers, ran into trouble, left the country, and a hitman was sent to make them pay," Peggy suggested.

"Peggy, you are a genius."

Sherlock rarely offered such high compliments. Peggy's cheeks flushed a slight rosy colour.

"That is very much a possibility. Of course, there are twelve other ones—" Sherlock paused as they heard a plane fly overhead towards the airport in London. "Make that eleven."

"But who killed the hitman?" Ana asked.

"That's what I want to know." Sherlock's eyes swept across the room, caught in his own world again.

Ana was visibly admiring him, her eyes sparkling. Peggy suppressed a laugh behind the back of her hand. 

"Ana, I suggest you stay in the house and do NOT answer the door. Peggy and I are going to take a look outside."

"Anything you say," Ana cheerfully answered.

"You just might prove to be most handy later," Sherlock said, his gaze flickering over towards her. "Would you like to assist in this case?"

"If it's an adventure, I'm down for it."

*************

Peg and Sherlock ventured out into the acres of land. The sunlight was golden, a striking change from the typical rain and clouds. Peggy and Sherlock walked down the gravel driveway, sizing up the situation. As the took in the scene, they spoke. 

"Ana's got quite the crush on you," Peggy mentioned, wholeheartedly amused. "It's very sweet that you are including her in this."

"She's an intelligent and clever woman. She deserves some recognition for that."

"That's kind of you."

Sherlock and Peggy possessed a silent communication all their own. They did not feel the need to reply to everything the other person said. A simple glance, a slight smile, all minor but significant forms of communication. It often stood in for words. They did this communication now, as they continued to look around the driveway for a sign of any disturbance.

"None whatsoever," Peggy stated. She could almost hear Sherlock thinking, working out the possibilities. Sherlock sighed and they kept walking around. The two companions stepped into the rose garden, the closest place to stow away near the front door.

"Molly may be able to come and assist in assessing the body," Sherlock said, absentmindedly. "Run some DNA tests..."

Peggy took the opportunity, although she wondered why she cared so much in the first place. "Are you...in a relationship with Molly?"

Sherlock did not seem terribly surprised by her question. "I don't get into relationships with people."

"I must say, I am curious why ever not," Peggy questioned. She stroked a petal on one of the roses. It was soft and buttery beneath her fingertips.

Sherlock considered her statement. "Well, I don't have time and emotional vulnerability is not a trait I can afford to have. Or wish to ever have. Besides, I pity the woman who would marry me."

"Well, whoever it is, I would say she is a very fortunate woman," Peggy said. She spoke impulsively, and she was never quite sure why she even said that. She swallowed and dropped her gaze down at one of the roses. Sherlock's blue eyes studied her for a brief second, before Peggy directed their attention to a car pulling into the driveway. 

John and Mary got out. Mary's stomach was ever growing with the future baby Watson. They both came right over. 

"Hitman?" Mary repeated with interest.

"We figured an ex assassin would be able to provide a different angle," Peggy said.

Mary was all business. Sherlock retold her the events that had taken place.

"Interesting. I'm curious who killed the hitman," Mary added, voicing their previous thoughts. She glanced around, expertly.

"Depends on how good they are, but the only nearby areas would be the garden or behind the car. And you'd have seen them, Peggy."

"What's that mean?"

"That means that whoever it was, has got to be an amazing assassin. Better than me, because I can't think of any place to go in that short of time, when it's this open. They'd have to be quiet as well. How was the hitman found again?" Mary folded her arms over her pregnant bump.

"Stabbed in the back."

"Right, so they would have had to know exactly what they were doing, know their way around a knife. If I had to cross him off, I would have preferred a IOF 32. Revolver. So this person is a little more old fashioned, too. A touch more unconventional to choose a knife."

"You would know, you did shoot me," Sherlock replied, with a smirk. Mary punched him in the arm. Peggy looked at Mary inquisitively. 

"Yes, Peggy, that did happen. But that's a story for another time," Mary said. "In the meantime, I'd definitely say you better keep Ana and Jarvis inside and wait. That was not the last time you'll see the killer."

*************

 _I was not in any way being flirtatious_ , Peggy convinced herself later that night. She was perched on the window seat of one of the copious bedrooms in the mansion. It had been decided that Peggy and Sherlock would stay with Ana and Jarvis, in endeavour to keep them from getting their 'heads blown off', as Mary had rather tactlessly said. Jarvis was doing quite well and calm, mostly because he wasn't even fully conscious.

  
Peggy unclipped her hair and slid into her night slip, arguing her inner turmoil. She unclasped her necklace and paused, holding it in her hand.

_"Peggy, do you really have to take a picture of me in this ridiculous outfit?" Steve had asked, faking annoyance._

__  
Peggy laughed gaily and waved the camera. "Of course, darling. I want to remember how you look in the original Captain America outfit before you go sending it to a museum."  


_Steve pecked her cheek before making a large display of playful nobility. "Alright, anything for you, Peggy."  
_

_He smiled and Peggy snapped the picture, the shutter making a click_ —

Peggy sharply turned, almost dropping the necklace, when she heard the door click open. Ana stood in the doorway.

"I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable for the night," Ana brightly said.

  
"Oh, yes, thank you Ana."

Ana was about to leave, when she stopped. "Everything alright, Pegs?"

"I'm perfectly fine."

"You don't look it."

"I'm just thinking about the case, is all."

"Really." Ana put her hands on her hips, unconvinced.

Peggy paused. Ana seized the opportunity. She came in, shutting the door. 

"I miss chatting with other ladies since Jarvis and I came here. Talk." Ana sat back in a fluffy chair.

Peggy gave in and put her feet up on the bed, leaning back on the dozens of pillows. "I think I said something without thinking that might have come off as flirtatious."

Ana nodded, knowingly. "Did you mean to flirt?"

"No...I don't know...I don't think so?" Peggy let out a gusty sigh. "I have no idea."

"Do you like the person?"

"Of course I do."

"Do you 'like' like the person?"

"He's attractive, but he's not available in any sense of the word."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't think he's interested in me in any way." 

"How could he not be, you're adorable. If I was a man, I'd date you," Ana firmly declared. "I probably still would even if I wasn't."

  
"Well I'm honoured you'd say that," Peggy replied, with a little laugh. Her expression changed. "I wasn't trying to sound flirtatious."

"But you think that he thinks it is."

"Girls fawn over him, the last thing I want is for him to think I'm another one of those daft bimbos."

"This is Sherlock we're talking about, right?" Ana clarified.

Peggy nodded, reluctantly. A look of triumph passed over Ana's face.

"Jarvis owes me fifty pounds," Ana said, elatedly.

"For what?" Peggy wanted to know. It occurred to her. "Wait, Ana you and Jarvis didn't—"

"—bet that you two would be interested in each other?" Ana burst out laughing. "How could we help it? You two are so cute! And the height difference is just SO dreamy."

Peggy didn't know whether to laugh or smack Ana. She groaned and threw herself back against the pillows. "Ana, I'm not interested in him. My goal is for him to NOT think I am. Miscommunication in romantic endeavours has been the downfall of many friendships, and I do not wish for that to happen between Sherlock and I." 

Ana's lips quirked in a rueful smile, "Peggy, I don't want you to miss out on a great thing, just because you are looking behind yourself."

"I promise you, I'm not interested romantically in Sherlock."

Ana pursed her lips and spoke with some regret. "If you are not interested, just make it clear you aren't. He probably didn't think you were flirting."

Peggy nodded slightly, tracing her hand along the pattern of the bedsheets. "It's odd," she said, suddenly. "I don't have romantic interest in him, but when he's with other women—"

"—you feel envious?"

"I don't know, not really. Just oddly protective?" 

"That's natural. I was like that with Jarvis at first."

Peggy drummed her fingernails against her knee. "What was it like when you and Jarvis met?" she implored, eager to change the subject.

"Well, he was very kind, very charming. I'd never met a man like him before." Ana got a wistful look in her eyes. It was obvious she was just as in love with him now, as she had been when they first met. "He respected me and we became close friends, before we fell in love. He cared about me and I knew I could trust him with my life, when it came down to it. Peggy, I know you work in a business that puts emotions on the back burner, but you have to have one person you can trust like that."

Peggy said, quietly, "I did, Ana. And he's gone now. Anyone who gets close to me is in danger."

"It wasn't your fault—"

"Then why did S.H.I.E.L.D exile me here?" Peggy's voice was flat and bitter.

"S.H.I.E.LD is made of idiots and Hydra now. I wouldn't trust them for a second. Their pronouncement on you was unjust and inaccurate. Is there truly any S.H.I.E.L.D agents left?"

Peggy's eyes became serious and dark. "S.H.I.E.L.D has been compromised, and so has everyone in it. Perhaps the exit here was not an entire demotion."

*************

Morning came and Peggy went into London, to discuss the matter with Mary and John. Sherlock resided at the house with Ana and Jarvis, to keep an eye on them. Mary and John had a row house in Central London. Rain splashed the sidewalk, as Peggy went inside and was cordially greeted. Mary served Peggy some tea at the kitchen table.

"When are you due?" Peggy asked.  
"Not soon enough. I'm not a fan of this whole pregnant thing," Mary answered with a sigh. "I haven't even dared to think of baby names but if I leave John to it, the poor child will be named Gertrude or something. Oh well. I'll get to it. So, you and Sherlock got any leads?" Mary inquired, carefully sitting down in a chair opposite Peggy.

  
"No leads, but based on your knowledge, we can narrow down the search field. I came to see if you have anymore intel for us to keep in mind."

"Always remember, if an assassin misses the target, they weren't really trying," Mary said, knowingly. "Whoever did it, will come back."

"Should we move Ana and Jarvis?"

"That'd be to obvious."

"I figured as much. Act like nothing happened, basically."

"Precisely."

Mary took a sip of tea. Peggy studied her, briefly. Had she really shot Sherlock? It was hard to imagine this petite little blonde as an ex assassin. 

"Yes, I really did shoot Sherlock." Mary said, her lips forming a gentle smile. 

"Pray, tell."  
Mary set her teacup back in the saucer and folded her hands on the table.

  
"Well, I had moved here not long after Sherlock's first 'death' and met John. He was so sweet, kind, thoughtful...I fell instantly in love with him. Of course, he could never know I was an ex assassin. After all he'd been through after Sherlock 'died', I could bring myself to tell him. Besides, I wanted to forget my past. So we got married, and he never knew. Sherlock returned to London after being away for two years, which was another great shock, so I couldn't tell John then either.   
Unfortunately, at the same time, a disgusting, blackmailing businessman called Charles Augustus Magnussen, had information on my past and threatened to blackmail me. I never wanted John to know about my past, so I went to Charles' office building to cross him off. It's very complicated, but Sherlock and John were also there. I'm not quite sure about their full side the story.  
Sherlock had walked in on me, holding Charles at gunpoint. He didn't call for John, who was down two flights of stairs at the time, he didn't even make an exclamation when he saw it was me who was going to shoot Charles. I knew he was stunned, however, and those were the longest two minutes of my life.   
I had two options. I could shoot them both and be done with it and escape, but then John, who was the only other person in the building, would be framed for murder. Which left me one other option. I had to keep Charles alive for an alibi for John. Charles, I knew, would tell the police it was NOT John, and he wouldn't mention me, so he could store up more secrets to use against me later. He liked to assert 'ownership'.   
This lead me to the shooting of Sherlock. I had to incapacitate him. Sentiment got the better of me. I shot one bullet in his stomach, knocked Charles' out, phoned for an ambulance, and left the way I came, before John even came up the stairs."

Peggy listened, in a mix of awe and appreciation for Mary's quick thinking and discretion. 

"A few days later, Sherlock, now conscious, convinced me to tell John. Sherlock was truly wonderful during it all. He understood why I had to shoot him and took it quite well. Took four months for John to come to terms with the fact he married an ex assassin who shot his best friend. But the secret was out and in the open. It was almost a relief."   
Mary sat back, resting her hands on her large pregnant stomach. 

"Whatever happened to Charles?" Peggy curiously asked, taking a sip of tea.

Mary cleared her throat. "Well...he did get shot."

"By you?" 

"By Sherlock."

Peggy's teacup landed with a clink on the table. "Sherlock shot him?"

"He did it to protect John and I. Charles was threatening to kill us both, and Sherlock...he would do anything to protect us."  
Peggy was stunned. She had no previous impression that the stoic Sherlock would have actually killed someone to protect John and Mary. 

"Everyone, including the British government, was afraid to kill Charles, because he an influential businessmen. What Sherlock did was a favour for the government, despite what they say. Sometimes the world needs a blunt instrument."

Peggy absorbed this all, quietly thinking. She hadn't ever anticipated any of this. Sherlock was willing to be a martyr for the greater good, something she'd never thought in his nature at all. 

"You are surprised?" Mary calmly said.

"I always thought Sherlock was a great man, but I had never thought he was a good one."

"Most people feel the same."

*************


	10. Clandestine Murder Part 2

Peggy left the Watson's house a half hour later, and stepped out into the rain to fetch herself a taxi. As she walked down the sidewalk, she saw a familiar limousine pull up next to her.

 _Oh lord_ , she thought. The door opened and with a gusty sigh, her breath misting in the cool air, she slid inside.

Mycroft was complacently sitting, calm and austere as always.

"Need a ride, Miss Carter?"

"Is this a fancy way to abduct me now?"

"More like convenient. Where are you headed?"

"Highland Street."

Mycroft gave the order to the driver. Peggy tilted her head. 

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Miss Carter, I think you ought to know that the British Government has decided to do a background check on you. If you have any secrets, we will know. I am warning you."

Anxiety ran down Peggy's arms. She kept her voice perfectly calm. "Very well. I have nothing to hide."

"Are you sure?"

"When you finish, I'm sure you'll be kidnapping me again. We can discuss anything that concerns you then."

Mycroft stared at her with interest. "You are an odd woman, Miss Carter, but you are clever. The government has ever right to wonder who you are."

Peggy turned and gazed out the window, masking her concern and apprehension.

*************

When Peggy arrived back at the mansion, she heard Jarvis singing and Ana looking both amused and worried.

"I don't think it's worn off yet."

"I can tell," Peggy answered, laughing slightly but a tremor ran in her throat. She felt vaguely shaken by the whole event with Mycroft. 

Sherlock came down the stairs and looked at her quizzically. "What did Mycroft want?"

"Who is Mycroft?" Ana asked.

  
"My brother, unfortunately."

  
"How did you know she'd seen him just by looking?" Ana was immensely fascinated. Her eyes were bright with interest.  
Sherlock took a step closer to Peggy, studying her. Peggy held still.

  
"Well Ana, you can tell by the way she looks, first of all. All people look vaguely like they just survived a traumatic event after being with my brother. Then of course, and most obviously, she doesn't carry the scent of taxi but of rich leather, which no taxi has. Her hands—" Sherlock lifted one of Peggy's hands lightly in his, his breath rustling her brunette locks. "are not tinted with the colour of ink, so she didn't hold money to pay for one. Besides, if she'd taken a taxi, she'd never have gotten back here so quickly. Which brings us to the conclusion of who Peggy would have been driven here by. Mycroft frequently abducts people in his expensive vehicle, so it wasn't a difficult conclusion to make."

  
Ana was throughly transfixed by this all, her mouth parted slightly. Sherlock let go of Peggy's hand, and she realised that she had been holding her breath the whole time.

  
"What did Mycroft want?" Sherlock inquired.

  
"He and I crossed paths and he offered to drive me," Peggy said, placidly and simply.

Sherlock didn't believe her for a second, but he did not press further. He turned to Ana.

"I daresay we ought to find out who was going to kill you, don't you think?"  
*************

Jarvis, Ana, Peggy and Sherlock went into one of the many living rooms. Jarvis was still quite out of it. 

"Peggy, when did you dye your hair pink?" He asked.

Peggy patted his shoulder. "You'll be ok." 

"Alright, Ana, tell me about the owners of this place." Sherlock clasped his hands together.

"Well, the McLaughlin's were a nice sort. Quiet. He went out a lot. They had odd friends, but seemed harmless enough. I knew them pretty well. When they said they were going on vacation, they asked Jarvis and I to stay and keep watch of the house."

"The 'vacation'. Tell me about that." 

"It was a bit sudden, they never travel in Autumn. They only told me a day in advance, that they were going to Scotland."

"Have you heard from them since?"

"No."

"What did they look like?"

"The humorous part is, they often got confused with Jarvis and I. She was small with red hair, he was tall and brunette."

Sherlock paused, thinking for a split second. "Well this case should be over within a few minutes."

"Really?"

"Yes, it's quite obvious when you think about it."

Peggy's mind made the connections, and she instantly exclaimed "Oh!"

"I knew you'd get it," Sherlock said with an approving look.

Ana was confused. "What am I missing?"

"Peggy, tell her."

Peggy cleared her throat. "The McLaughlin's are drug smugglers, and did something that made them a target from their own mob. A hitman was sent to kill them. I assume that the hitman thought Jarvis was the butler who would go fetch them and was going to escort the McLaughlin's into the car where he'd kill them. However, someone killed the hitman first. Someone has been watching you and Jarvis, keeping an eye on you both."

Ana's eyes widened. "That's...disturbing. But interesting, to say the least. How do we find who killed the hitman?"

"This is where you come in handy, Ana," Sherlock said, standing up and grasping her arm. "I'm going to shoot at you."

"Wait, what?" 

"It's part of a plan," Sherlock explained calmly.

"Is it a good plan?" Peggy intervened. 

Sherlock paused. "It's a plan," he finally said.

*************

Sherlock dragged her out into the yard. Peggy loaded her gun before stepping outside after them. She stood behind the terrace, watching carefully.

  
Sherlock started yelling at Ana, who most beautifully played a damsel in distress, letting out cries of distress. Peggy kept an eye on them, while she listened for any sound of noise or movement from another source. Sherlock shoved Ana on the ground, and she dramatically began to weep. He pulled out his gun and held it out at her. Peggy sucked in her breath slowly, waiting to see how far the act would have to go. Peggy knew about Sherlock's ruthless side, his obsession with solving something even if it endangers or hurts others. Peggy loathed herself, but she kept the gun slightly tilted towards him. Her fingers began to grow damp, clasped around the handle.

  
Finally, Sherlock fired a shot at the sky, and Ana acted out a convincing screech. Sherlock spat an obscenity at her, and held her back at gunpoint. He pressed his finger on the trigger, when in a flying, lightning bolt of a second, a bullet from nowhere struck Sherlock in the side.

Ana let out a real scream, and Peggy skidded over. She ripped off his coat and saw a rapidly forming stain of dark blood.

"Ana, get inside now!" She snapped.

Ana clambered to her feet. "I'll call the doctor." She ran into the house.

Peggy pressed her hand against the gushing wound, blood seeping around her hand and fingers. Her eyes scanned around and she saw no possible place for a shooter to have fired from. Peggy checked his pulse, light and erratic, not unlike her's at the moment. Her hand no longer sufficed as a pressure on it. She wiped as much blood off her hand as possible on the grass. She needed something to pressurise it, and she was not about to take her shirt off and use that. She highly doubted that the first thing Sherlock and the paramedics would want to see would be her in a bra. 

There was nothing suitable. Peggy let out a short exhale of air, and pressed her hand back against it. Feeling an open wound under her hand was not particularly enjoyable, but thank god Peggy was made of tough blood. Despite the peril of the situation, Peggy found herself thinking of when Mary shot Sherlock, not to kill, but to incapacitate. And then what Mary had said, "Always remember, if an assassin misses the target, they weren't really trying.".

  
Of course an assassin who could shoot from an extreme distance, could have easily killed Sherlock. But one shot to the side, to protect Ana...

To protect Ana and Jarvis. An assassin was protecting Ana and Jarvis.

Why did they need to be protected?

Peggy heard ambulance sirens approaching, and she checked Sherlock's pulse again. 

Weak, sporadic. Her fingers curled around his wrist, feeling his light pulse run through her fingertips.

*************

Peggy tapped her foot impatiently in the waiting room of the hospital. Her mind was in a hundred different directions. After what felt like eternity, a nurse summoned her into Sherlock's hospital room. The nurse paused at the door with Peggy.

"He'll be alright but we almost lost him twice," the nurse said in a low voice. "He will be weak for a while, prone to possible internal bleeding. Keep an eye on him."

"That won't be too hard," Peggy truthfully replied. What was a little more on her already maternal role?

Peggy stepped into the hospital room, and Sherlock was staring at the ceiling, his pupils oddly dilated.

"You are very hard to kill." was all Peggy said. She glanced over at the morphine taps and saw that it was as high as it could go.

Sherlock glanced over at her, and his voice sounded odd. "You have pretty hair," he stuttered.

Peggy gave him 'the look' that she had perfected. "Don't tell me you like going OD on morphine now, too?"

Sherlock's hands were twitching. Peggy made a sound of exasperation, and turned the taps down low.

"I'm trying to think," Sherlock managed to say. 

"You can think without drugs," Peggy shortly answered. "You're far smarter than any pill or formula ever created."

His eyes scanned over to her briefly. He spoke in a slow voice, careful and articulate. "What happened with the case?"

Peggy pulled up one of the chairs next to his bed. "Ana and Jarvis decided to go 'shopping'. They left under the cover of that, but right now they're back in their London home."

"Ana was an asset," Sherlock stumbled.

"She was," Peggy nodded. "Sherlock, would you have shot her?" she bluntly asked.

Sherlock paused. "Depended on the situation."

Peggy said nothing and stared at him.

"You think I'm a psycho."

"Everyone thinks you are one. I, actually, don't."

"That's a refreshing change."

"But you knew you'd get shot."

"Yes."

Peggy tapped her long fingernails against the metal armrests of her chair. "You aren't psycho, but my god are you crazy."

Sherlock smiled.

"So the case. What does this prove? We never caught the guy that killed the hitman and presumably shot at you."

"Don't bother, whoever that is is replaced now. And they aren't going to harm you and I, or Ana and Jarvis."

"They're assigned to keep us alive?"

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. "Moriarty's men did this once before. Kept John and I out of harm, even if it meant killing other people or incapacitating them. But they only keep alive the people that Moriarty finds to be of use later."

Peggy spoke in an urgent tone. "He's keeping Ana and Jarvis alive for his own agenda."

"Which leaves us with the question, 'why'." Sherlock sighed deeply. "What does he see in them..." He turned and looked at Peggy. "What would you do to protect Ana and Jarvis?"

"Anything, of course."

"They're your pressure points."

"You could say that."

"Well," Sherlock said. "It appears that Moriarty knows that know, and is going to keep Ana and Jarvis under strict surveillance for when he needs to activate that point."

Peggy's fingers dug into the cushion. "I'm going to get them out of the country. They are not to be in danger because of me."

"Miss Carter, you know it's not that simple."

Of course she knew. That didn't mean she wanted to accept it.

*************

Peggy arrived back at 221B late that night. She decided to let the cats stay with her until 221B was to be occupied again by Sherlock. She opened the door to her flat and the cats scampered across the hall into her flat. 

_Five cats_ , she thought. _I can't imagine what he'll think of next_.

  
She flicked on the light. Something was off. She cautiously stepped into her living room and flipped on the lights in one swift motion. She jolted at the sight of Mycroft standing in her living room.

"What on good bloody earth are you doing here?" She sharply asked. 

Mycroft fixed his gaze on her. "May I ask what you are doing?"

"I don't understand, and I would like you to leave."

"We did a full background check on you and your friends Ana and Jarvis. Clean as can be. Except for one, minor detail."

  
"Really? What?" Peggy kept her voice clipped and cold to suppress any hint of fear in her voice.

  
Mycroft pulled three files out of his suit jacket. He flipped open the file and began to read. "Edwin Jarvis, born 1916 in Sussex England. Ana Kovács, born 1919 in Budapest Hungary."

  
Peggy had a sinking feeling of horror. She struggled to keep her composure.

"Margaret Elizabeth 'Peggy' Carter, born April 9th 1921 in London England."

  
He looked up at her and she struggled to keep expressionless.

  
"I don't understand."

  
"Don't try to lie about this, Miss Carter. There are facts written in time about you, and your friends. Photographs of you in World War 2 with Captain Steven Rogers. Photographs of Ana at the hotel she grew up working at. Howard Stark had a butler named Edwin Jarvis, with written proof. There is not one document that exists that counteracts your certain existence in the 1940s. In case you have not glanced at the calendar, it is October 4th 2015. "

  
Mycroft stepped forward. Peggy began to feel nauseated. She mentally blocked it out.

  
"Perhaps the most disturbing fact of all is that you four died in a plane crash over the Artic in 1950. It's documented. You have a death certificate. They have a death certificate. You froze to death from hypothermic shock." Mycroft looked at the young woman in front of him. "I don't know who or what you are, but you can be certain I will find out. And if you do anything to harm my brother, I will see to it that you suffer for the rest of your life. However long that may be."

  
Peggy stared at him, her eyes burning with intensity. "Mycroft Holmes, you will leave my flat right now or, so help me god, I will shoot you."

  
"I don't doubt that."

  
He brushed past her out the door and left. Peggy stood motionless, stiff in cold dread, for a long moment. She heard a car pull away from the curb and drive into the London dusk, Mycroft's car. It wasn't for another ten minutes before she finally brought herself to pick up the phone. It was answered after one ring.

  
"Coulson? We've got a code red."

 

*end of chapter 5*


	11. The Sickness Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typically I break the chapters into two parts. I'm going to just post it whole now. Xoxo

Peggy had not slept the night that Mycroft had been in her flat. A heavy rain pummelled the pavement and buildings outside. Peggy stared out the window, sipping a mug of tea.

94\. She was supposed to be 94. And here she was, 29.

Peggy exhaled slowly, her breath misting the window and glanced at her watch. 7 in the morning. God, she really had stayed up all night. _I ought to get to the hospital to check on Sherlock_.

Her phone buzzed and she answered it hastily.

"Coulson?"

"Hi. How are you?"

Peggy didn't reply. "What have you done?"

"Fitz has erased all files that exist on you and your friends. We're getting new identities for them. You are getting a new date and location of birth. Fitz and Jemma Simmons will be there with your intel as soon as possible. They're on the flight now."

"Thank you, Coulson."

"Anytime, Peggy. Anything for you."

Peggy smiled faintly and hung up.

 

*************

  
The hospital was buzzing even at that early hour. Peggy was greeted by John and Mary coming out of Sherlock's room just as she came over.

"How is he?" Peggy inquired.

"Stable enough. He happened to be taking too much self administered morphine," John said, with a touch of exasperation.

"Can't say I'm surprised," Peggy answered. "Can I go in yet?"

"The nurse is redressing his bandage, she said we can go back in in a moment," John said. The three went into the waiting room.

"Quite a bullet he took," Mary commented. "That's going to leave a mark."

"He knew he was going to get shot but he did it anyway, to prove a point," Peggy said.

Mary's lips tugged into a smile. "Either he's an idiot or he's a genius."

"Both, I imagine," Peggy replied.

A nurse appeared in the waiting room. "Margaret Carter? Sherlock Holmes wishes to see you."

"He didn't even know I was here yet," Peggy whispered to Mary who laughed. She followed the nurse into the room.

Sherlock was sitting up slightly, and another nurse was reapplying a bandage over the bullet wound. Peggy was startled to see that he was shirtless and struggled to show no reaction, keeping her eyes focused on his eyes. He was more muscular than she had ever anticipated.

Sherlock told the nurses to go away, and they seemed not entirely willing to leave. Peggy came over next to the bed, sitting down next to him.

"How do you feel?"

"Bored."

"I mean, physically."

"Oh, that. They took away my morphine."

"Which you were overdosing on," Peggy disapprovingly countered.

He sighed gustily. His hair was a tousled mess, and Peggy hated to admit it, but he looked incredibly attractive especially for being shot only the previous day. She'd seen dozens of men shot before and none of them looked particularly good afterwards.

She cleared her throat. "How did you know I was here?"

"You have an unmistakable accent, which I heard when John and Mary spoke to you in the hallway outside the door. You obviously didn't sound like any of the nurses."

"Alright, and what do you need?"

"I need to get out of here."

"Don't be absurd."

"I'm more likely to die of boredom at this point, than any pesky bullet."

"You stay and you rest. Peggy's orders," Peggy firmly replied.

Not even Sherlock can argue with Peggy's direct orders. "Why can't someone get murdered?"

"I'll see what I can do about that," Peggy answered, ruefully. "You're in a hospital, people are dying all around you. This should be your version of heaven."

"There are worse places to be, but their deaths can be explained. There is no mystery. This woman has cancer, this man broke his arm, that child has a cold...you see? It can come up on scans. The work I prefer is the thing that don't come up on scans."

"I understand how that does feel," Peggy said. "Who knows, maybe something interesting will happen here."

"What an interesting day that will be," Sherlock replied.

*************

Peggy flipped through a magazine, perched on the chair next to his bed. Sherlock was beginning to look like he was in pain.

"Morphine wearing off?" Peggy asked, not looking up.

"You could say that," Sherlock answered.

Peggy looked at her watch. "You get a dosage in a half an hour."

Sherlock nodded his head slightly. A few minutes passed. Sherlock carefully and quietly pulled the IV string off out of his vein. Peggy finally looked up.

"What are you doing?"

"Removing the IV, it's annoying."

Peggy got up swiftly and took the string from him. "It stays on, too. Along with the bandage, the monitors, and every other thing you have tried to remove in the past hour."

Sherlock would have banged his head against the nearest available wall if he could have. He sighed for the hundredth time that hour.

"Did you send the bullet to Molly?" Sherlock inquired.

"Already being tested in the laboratory," Peggy replied. "That will help us track down Moriarty's hitmen."

"Immensely. That was the point of me being shot."

"I can't believe you would do that."

"You of all people would know about sacrifices," was all Sherlock said. A brief look passed between them. Peggy always wondered just how much he knew about her and didn't say. The idea made her uncomfortable.

Now that the morphine had worn off, he was in increasing pain. That sharpened his boredom and his mind. He wanted to leave this monotonous place as soon as possible. Which, according to the nurses, was not going to happen anytime soon. The bullet in his side had effected that lung as well causing it to involuntarily and periodically collapse at any given second. Until they could stabilise that, he was not going anywhere. The pain didn't bother him, it never pain never did. When he was younger, he used to be emotional during pain. Now, pain had become a second skin. When a person undergoes enough, they find pain to almost be comforting, a reminder that they exist.

Peggy sat back down, and a doctor came in.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Karen Larson, I will be taking a look at your injury," she perkily said. If Peggy wanted to stay, she added, that was allowed.

The bandage was removed and Peggy saw how much damage had truly happened. The wound was large and gaping, right above his lung. Peggy saw underneath the torn up flesh, part of his lung. As Karen reapplied a bandage, she explained to Peggy just how deep and intensive the surgery had to be to remove the bullet.

Her intercom beeped, as she washed her hands in the sink. Karen spoke into it as she dried her hands.

"Doctor Karen Larson spea—" her face changed. "I'll be right there. Start with the defibrillators now— I don't care that it's a baby, do it!"

The dO for rushed out without another word.

"Sounds like a sick baby," Peggy remarked, flipping through the magazine again.

"A very sick one," Sherlock continued. "Defibrillation is incredibly dangerous even for adults, let alone a child. It would have to be—"

"—cardiac arrest," finished Peggy with interest. "That's rare for babies."

Sherlock agreed. The minutes ticked by slowly. Suddenly Karen came back in. She looked strained.

"We're going to have to do a lockdown of the building for quarantine. Miss Carter, I'm afraid you won't be allowed to leave."

"That's alright, I had no plans on going," Peggy answered. She was tired from not sleeping and worry, so staying put was perfectly fine to her. "May I ask what's spreading?"

The doctor looked uncomfortable. "We—we aren't sure just yet. The symptoms are relatively vauge so it could be anything at this point."

"Is there anything I can do?" Peggy asked, concerned.

"Keep him from stealing all our morphine," Karen said pointedly. She left and locked the door.

"That poor baby," Peggy commented. She had a soft spot for children and disliked the idea of such a pure, innocent human subject to illness only a few days old.

"Illnesses do crawl around here like wildfire. Hospitals are like giant Petri dishes," Sherlock said. "I'm probably going to have Ebola by the time I get home."

"That's true," Peggy agreed, trailing off, growing distracted by an article in the magazine about a new type of skirt that was growing popular.

A pause, then, "Miss Carter, do you know how to hack into the phones that the doctors are communicating with?"

  
"Yes," Peggy absently said, before suddenly growing suspicious. "Why?" Peggy wanted to know, her head snapping up. 

"We're both bored, this is something to do. Go on."

Peggy didn't resist. She was bored, and curious as to the welfare of the child. Boredom is a poisonous habit that she was bit by as well. She picked up the phone and dialled in specific numbers, ones she had seen the nurse type in in the hallway. The phone connected into the doctor's conversations. Peggy sat down next to Sherlock on the bed, setting the phone between them.

"A patient with a broken wrist just began developing systems," a tired voice said. "We're moving him to quarantine."

"Is the building on lockdown?" a second voice replied.

"Yes it is."

"Good, do not let ANYONE leave or come in. We have no idea how dangerous this could be."

"How many have symptoms?"

"Two adults, three babies. We lost the one baby."

There was muffling sounds. The first woman's voice was urgent.

"Second baby is flatlining!"

The phone disconnected, cutting off.

Peggy bit her lip. A wave of compassion passed over her.

"Those poor babies," she said in a low voice. Sherlock looked over at her.

"They barely were alive long enough to know they were dying," Sherlock said. He did not display compassion in a physical way, but in his own, strange way, he offered his version of kind words. Strong honesty mixed with more articulate wording, to sound less callous.

"It feels most useless to just sit here," Peggy said. Impatience was beginning to get the better of her.

The phone clicked on again and another male voice spoke.

"This is Doctor Lewis."

A female voice, Karen's, replied, "Symptoms?"

"That's the thing. It's incredibly vague and basic, it could go anywhere. Coughing up mucus, fever, difficulty breathing, fainting."

"Well, that only narrows things down to a thousand different options," Karen said, sounding distressed. "Can we run blood tests?"

"The adults we can. I don't think we should risk it with the babies."

There was a long pause. You could almost hear Karen thinking. "Start antibiotics now with the adults. Get their medical history, see what they can take and give them the highest dosage.

"Right away."

The phone disconnected again.

Peggy was thinking, herself. "Coxsackie virus?" She suggested.

"Plausible indeed, but there typically is a rash or blisters."

The pain was radiating every time Sherlock breathed, so he focused his full attention on the matter at hand. "Perhaps the influenza?"

"Possible but not really going around this year that much."

The phone crackled. It was another female, and she sounded worried.

"Doctor Lewis has just begun to have difficulty breathing."

"Panic attack?" Karen asked.

"I believe it is the same respiratory failure as the other patients."

"Do you have any leads?"

"That's the other thing...The lab technicians working with the blood samples just fell sick as well. No one else in the building knows how to work with the blood samples, and we're becoming short staffed."

Karen took a deep breath. "No one else knows how to run a laboratory?"

"If they do, they're keeping people from flatlining."

"Keep as many patients as stable and comfortable as possible. I'm coming into the ward."

The phones hung up. Peggy was suddenly struck with a thought.

"I know two people who can run the lab."

"Who?"

"I don't know them very well, but we can trust them."

Peggy dialled in a phone number. "Fitz? Get to the Saint Matthew's Hospital, East Hampton Street." She clicked the phone off.

"They'll never be able to get in," Sherlock pointed out.

  
"They can, if I have a say in it," Peggy replied. She pulled her nail file out of her purse and started to pick the lock of the door.

*************

Peggy knew she'd have to act fast, and with all the nurses running about, slipping around the building was not difficult. She found Doctor Karen's office just as Karen was leaving to go to the ward.

"You need to go into a secure room now," Karen exclaimed.

"I know two scientists who can help fund a cure," was all Peggy answered.

"Good for you, now I have to go save lives."

"You need scientists in the labs. I have two who know more about science than you can imagine."

"Leave. Now."

Peggy paused for a moment. "When all your patients start knocking off and you admit to the help of two highly trained scientists, let me know." She turned and walked off back to Sherlock's room.

She knew Karen would find her within fifteen minutes. Which, she did.

"Call your bloody scientists," snapped Karen, appearing in the doorway of the room.

"They're already at the front door."

*************

Jemma Simmons and Leo Fitz entered the hospital and were greeted by a rushing staff and the intercom going off every two seconds. Jemma sucked in her breath.

"We're actually going to meet Peggy Carter," Jemma hissed. "The real Peggy Carter."

Fitz's eyes were bright with excitement and intrigue. Karen saw them and came over.

"I do not normally invite outsiders to come assist, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The laboratory is the second floor on the right. That's as far as your clearance goes."

"And where is Peggy?" Jemma asked.

"Peggy?"

"Margaret Carter."

"Oh. Yes. She is going to join you in the laboratory. What's your names again?"

"Jemma Simmons."

"Leo Fitz."

*************

The laboratory was large, white as snow and sterile. Fitzsimmons felt automatically at home. They set right to work, dropping coats and bags on a chair and donning proper laboratory jackets. 

"Okay so we cannot, under any circumstances, touch the blood with our bare hands," Fitz directed. Jemma sat at the computer and pulled up the last scans run.

"Nothing obviously is wrong with them. We'll have to try a larger sample, these scientists barely used any."

"Well of course it won't be obvious," a voice said behind them.

Fitzsimmons turned and saw Agent Peggy Carter walk in. Jemma gripped the table tightly.

"Agent Carter?" She said in a hushed voice.

"You must be Jemma Simmons." Peggy strode over and shook Jemma's hand. "Lovely to meet you. Your work in biochemistry is unparalleled."

Jemma thought for sure she was going to faint. The actual Peggy Carter seemed almost too good to be true, the very woman Jemma had aspired to imitate since she was young. Here she was, as vibrant and youthful as anything.

"Jemma, I do hope you will be able to help us cure the sick patients," Peggy said earnestly.

"Of course I will," Jemma hastily said. Peggy smiled.

"Fitz, you've been an angel of help, even if we haven't gotten to meet yet," Peggy said.  
She shook his hand. Her expression changed. "How has S.H.I.E.L.D been?"

"It's a fractured and divided house," Fitz replied, quietly. "And a divided house won't be able to stand for long."

"That's what I was afraid of."

They let the subject drop, leaving it for later and began to survey the diagnostics.

"Looks like the one mother is prone to anaemia but that's it so far," Jemma said. "Is there a safe way to bring a patient in here for examination?"

"They'd kill us if we even tried," Peggy said.

"Killing people?" A voice sounded interested behind them. They turned abruptly and Sherlock, somehow back in his dress-cloths and navy coat, came in.

"Sherlock! What are you doing in here?" Peggy rushed over, grasping his arm tightly.

"I'm bored and there is morphine in here, my dear." Sherlock limped his way over to a cabinet and pulled out a pill case. He swallowed them dry and looked over at Fitz and Jemma.

"Hello."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Jemma had a hint of awe in her voice.

"That'd be right," was all Sherlock said. Peggy snatched the pill case away from him, discarding it back into a cupboard and forced him to sit down.

"You seem to be in a lot of pain," Fitz said to him, worriedly.

"My lung is collapsing alongside a gunshot wound, and I am sure I have internal bleeding right now, but surprisingly, the pain isn't too extreme. Most likely because I am going into shock and my pain receptors are shutting down and at this rate, I have one hour to solve this case before I die. So!" Sherlock calmly said. "What do you have so far?"

"You should be getting medical care," Jemma said.

"I'll be fine. Distract me."

"Ok um, we found that the one mother has had anaemia in the past. We haven't gotten much."

"That wouldn't prove anything," Peggy said with a sigh.

Jemma's fingers fluttered over the keyboard. "They're clean for flu and all common viruses."

Fitz began scanning the blood samples and Jemma read off the information. "They're clean for HIV and bacterial infections."

Peggy pulled up a chair next to Sherlock and sat down. She reached over and pressed her fingers against the underside of his wrist. His pulse was becoming erratic again. Peggy let a small sigh escape her lips. Sherlock was equally as stubborn as she, and there was no point in arguing any medical treatment with him at the moment.

"There are at least thirty different results as a possibility. Any respiratory illness is possible."

"I wish to god we could bring someone in here to examine," Jemma said, sitting back. "We need live tests, not a few blood samples. We need to see the illness up close."

"There's no way we could get to that ward," Fitz said.

Peggy turned around to check on Sherlock, but all that was there was an empty chair.

*************

Sherlock walked right into the disease ward, as efficient and brisk as he could possibly be in his condition. He spotted a room with a sick mother and her baby with no nurses in it. He walked in.

"Is this yours?" He asked, pointing at the baby.

She coughed too much to answer, her eyes glazed, cheeks flushed. Sherlock looked down at a still somewhat healthy baby laying in the bassinet.

"I'll just be borrowing this for a few minutes. Don't worry, I'll return it, I hate kids," he said.

  
"But that-t's my-y ba-aby," the mother struggled to say.

"You child is going to aid in a scientific study that will more than compensate for the fast that he is yet another person has been born into this crappy world."

The mother gave him a weird look, amidst her coughing. Sherlock plucked the baby from the bassinet and walked right on out.

*************

Peggy went into the elevator and clicked on the upper floor.

  
_Of course Sherlock would do something like this_ , she thought, vaguely amused. The door opened when it reached the floor and Sherlock walked in holding the baby, before Peggy could even step out.

"What a coincidence," he said, pressing for floor down.

"You just stole a baby?" Peggy's lips parted.

"They didn't seem to mind," Sherlock calmly said, patting the baby on the head.

"You can't just steal a baby, Sherlock," Peggy stuttered. "That's morally wrong."

"Doctor Simmons and Doctor Fitz needs to study one, I have one."

The elevator music droned on a preppy song. Peggy smothered the urge to slam the speakers with her fist.

"The baby can't be off its monitors, it'll die—"

"This one is just developing symptoms, and Doctor Simmons will be able to keep it alive. She can't keep the others alive, however, if she can't see it up close."

"But—"

"At this rate, I'll die before the baby will."

*************

Jemma and Fitz were quietly talking amongst themselves when Peggy and Sherlock came in, also with the baby. Jemma was surprised.

"You actually brought a patient," she said.

Sherlock nodded. Fitz took the baby from him, holding it carefully in his arms. He looked at the small wristband on the baby.

"His name is Tyler," Fitz said. "Alright Tyler, let's get you comfortable." He lay the baby down on the bed on the examining table. Jemma came over and made a cooing sound at it. Tyler looked up at them with wide eyes. He coughed. Jemma and Fitz reached down and carefully got it situated, in a parental way.

"Alright you two, stop being parents and get to work," Sherlock said. Jemma flushed and Fitz quickly went back to the computers. Peggy exchanged an look with Sherlock and they had one of their silent conversations, and stepped aside.

Jemma carefully drew blood from Tyler and put it into the machine. She sat down at the computer and began to read off the information. Fitz leaned over her shoulder to scan with her. The both, in unison, sucked in their breath. Peggy and Sherlock waited for them to explain what was wrong.

"Early symptoms of phenomena," Fitz murmured.

"How would a baby get phenomena? It hasn't been around any," Peggy said.

"It only takes slight bacteria to form rapidly into that virus," Jemma pointed out. "It effects children more than adults, symptom-wise."

"Which is why the babies were sicker and dying, whereas the adults were not," Fitz added, "It only takes being exposed to it for a few minutes before symptoms can develop. Such as, if one patient with phenomena came into this hospital---"

"---then from the simple journey from the street to the hospital room, they would have effected dozens with the illness---" Jemma continued.

"---patients come in constantly complaining of chest pain and fever so the hospital probably regarded it as unimportant, not knowing that every time they walked out of the patient's room, they were carrying the illness to other rooms---" Fitz further explained.

"---so essentially, this string of phenomena no doubt spread not unlike an apocalyptic disease," finished Jemma.

Jemma and Fitz's eyes were alight with excitement and pleasure. They stared at each other, eyes locked, smiling.

"I hate to interrupt whatever...this is, but there are people dying, save the kissing for later," Sherlock intercepted.

Fitz and Jean looked flustered. "We aren't a couple, you see—"

"I beg to differ," Sherlock remarked. Sherlock's blue eyes skimmed over them. "Let me guess...Doctor Fitz, you fell in love with Jemma, she thought you both were just friends. Something traumatic pulled you apart..." He looked over at a Fitz. "Hypoxia?"

"How did you—"

"Not a difficult leap. Stuttering, less coordination with your one hand. I've seen the symptoms before." Sherlock fixed his eyes on Jemma. "You left, I presume, and that put a further strain on your relationship. You only recently got together again so something must have happened to one of you, bringing you together again. You both made up, didn't you?"

Jemma's cheeks were pink. "We never kissed..."

"When I said 'kiss later' a moment ago, you bit your lip, flushed, touched your hair, he fidgeted and touched his collar, and notably looked at your lips, Doctor Simmons."

Jemma shot Fitz a look. Sherlock smirked slightly.

"You both believe it's ill-fated love?"

Jemma and Fitz didn't answer. Peggy watched Sherlock, listening.

"There is no such thing. There is no such thing as 'fate' keeping you apart. It's yourselves."

Jemma swallowed and went over to Tyler. Fitz's gaze trailed after her.

"I thought you viewed love on the same level as people view the plague," Peggy commented quietly to him.

"I may be austere to the emotion itself but the chemistry of it is fairly simple to observe," Sherlock replied.

Peggy watched Jemma and Fitz hovering over the baby, smiling down at it and shushing it's cries. Although there was chaos and death around them, death is often what brings people closest together.

*************

"Alright, tell me what's up," Karen ordered, yanking her blue mask off of her mouth as she entered the laboratory.

"We believe that a severe case of phenomena is spreading," Fitz explained, tapping a pen on the table.

Karen seemed to agree but she sighed. "We've used almost all of the antibiotics we have available. We'd need to go to restock up for such severe cases. All the refills are at the medical centre down the road. I'll go phone for some."

She disappeared out the double doors. Tyler began to cry. Fitz had put on one of the surgical masks before he picked Tyler up, murmuring gentle words. Jemma's brown eyes followed his movements with the baby carefully.

Of course she melted around a grown man holding a tiny, newborn baby. How could she not?

Peggy raised her eyebrow at Sherlock who cast an equally amused look at Peggy. Karen walked back in.

  
"Miss Carter, Doctor Fitz, I suggest you two go pick up the medical care? Sherlock is in no condition to leave, and Jemma would be more suited to helping any medical crisis with him while I'm gone."

Peggy agreed, as did Fitz. He did glance over at Jemma, as if the thought of leaving her with Sherlock did not entirely please him. Before he left, he laced his fingers through her's and gave her hand a light squeeze. Jemma smiled after him, a wistful look passing over her eyes.

"When I get back, we're running blood tests on you and getting you checked out," she firmly said to Sherlock. Sherlock sighed and insisted he was fine. Peggy gave him 'the look' and left with Fitz.

*************  
  
Sherlock observed Jemma with his typical scrutiny as she typed in mathematical formulas into the computers. Jemma struggled to resist bringing something to the forefront, but finally gave in.

"What you said was true," Jemma abruptly said.

"That is rather vague," Sherlock answered. "Most of what I say is true."

"About me and Fitz. We aren't being pulled apart by fate."

"I know."

As Jemma spoke, she didn't stop typing. "We do it to ourselves."

There was something oddly easy about taking to Sherlock or at him, despite his steely personality. Perhaps because he listened. He did not interrupt, he did not inject personal opinions. It was truly an ideal listening ear.

Jemma kept going. "It's daft, really. We have no reason to, it's just that...I don't know. We're always running and running towards each other and we get so close, but we never meet."

"Parallel lines," Sherlock remarked, mildly.

"I wish there was one point on the lines where we intersect, even if it's just for a moment," Jemma said in a low tone.

"It does no good to dwell on things like that, Doctor Simmons," Sherlock answered.

  
"It wouldn't be so bad if we never got to get close, but we do and every time we do, it's like a warning of danger. Something always happens," Jemma said with emotion. "I just loathe it. It's like...like a dark cloud always over Fitz and I."

"Our darkness defines us, Doctor Simmons. Although it defines your relationship with Doctor Fitz negatively, it can be used in a more positive manner."

"Such as?"

"Bitterness during a dark situation is paralysing, love during it is a far more vicious motivator for change."

Jemma lifted her eyes from the computer and directed them towards Sherlock.

"Do-do you think maybe Fitz is in love with me?" She forced out the words. There are few people in the world as perceptive as Sherlock, and she knew that he was her only hope for a clear answer on it.

"Why do you ask?" Sherlock inquired. Words are a weapon, and they are one he knew how to play with very well. He was curious to see Jemma's reasoning.

"Just...some things happened between us, and I've begun to doubt it," Jemma said in a bit of a rush. "Do you think he is?"

Sherlock didn't answer right away. He studied the young girl, the survivor, the girl painted with pain and darkness. Always putting on a perky attitude to hide her inner turmoil. He had yet to know the extent of her darkness that she abundantly carried but it interested him. There are few people Sherlock held in any regard; Peggy, John and Mary. Yet, Doctor Simmons had slowly won over a place there.

"I really don't think it's a question, Doctor Simmons."

Jemma let out a deep breath, and realised she had held it the whole time. Emotion pricked her eyes, tears or relief. She was too disciplined to cry, however. She turned back to the monitor.

"Have you ever been in love?" She asked him, suddenly.

"No," he replied.

"I hope you do," she said in earnest. "You deserve it."

"That's a kind sentiment of yours, Doctor Simmons."

"Please, call me Jemma."

*************

Peggy drove to the nearest pharmacy with Fitz in tow. On the way, they spoke, delving back into the S.H.I.E.L.D matter.

"Does S.H.I.E.L.D need me?" Peggy wanted to know.

"God yes, but everyone is being stupid about you," Fitz said, irritably. "They say you're too much of a risk."

"Well, they aren't wrong," Peggy answered. She drummed her fingers lightly on the steering wheel. It occurred to her that that was a trait she'd picked up after being around Sherlock.

"I wish you were able to come back," Fitz said. "It would be nice to have someone we can actually trust there."

"How's Skye—"

"Daisy."

"I'll never remember that," Peggy said with a sigh. "How is she?"

"Not herself. Cold. Brisk."

"Melinda?"

"She spends hours talking with Coulson. We barely see her. No one has left for a mission in almost two months. It's like S.H.I.E.L.D is shut down."

"And what about Coulson? He seemed pretty tense on the phone."

"He is taking a lot of anxiety medication lately."

Peggy smiled slightly.

"I think Coulson is trying to weed out the last of the true members and send them away," Fitz continued. "For four years, Jemma begged for a vacation and he kept saying he couldn't spare her, but now we both asked to go at once and he was more than willing to ship us off."

"Heard anything from the Avengers or Fury?"

"Tony Stark got a new airplane, if that interests you. Other than that, it's been mute," Fitz said.

He stared at Peggy. So calm, so poised despite everything that had happened to her these past two years. She seemed incredibly content to be back in London and was looking better than ever.

"What's it like here for you?"

"I haven't been bored," Peggy truthfully replied. "And I thank you for the new IDs."

"It was easy," Fitz causally said.

There was a brief pause.

"Are you and Sherlock dating?" Fitz asked.

Peggy blinked. "No, where'd you get that idea?"

He shrugged. "You two just seem to have a connection, that's all."

"Why, does it look like we're dating?"

"You both seem really close and trust each other, is all. And you both kind of act married," Fitz replied.

"Married?" Peggy looked over at him for a second.

Fitz casually answered, "Yeah, you know, silent conversations, bickering, looking out for each other, constant eye contact. If that isn't flirting then I've been messing it up with Jemma for years."

Peggy didn't answer. What she knew she was going to have to do when she got back at the hospital would not help remove the truth from Fitz's words.

*************

Peggy and Fitz arrived back at the hospital, medication in hand. It was far stronger antibiotics than before, and an abundant mass of them, enough to care for every sick person. Peggy prayed they would work. They entered the hospital to discover that it was general and immense chaos.

Peggy caught a nurses arm. "What's happening?"

"Two people just started convulsions," was the short and hurried reply as the nurse ran up the stairs. "They won't stop shaking."

Peggy and Fitz made their way though the nurses to the laboratory. They found Sherlock beginning to looked intently pained, and Jemma hovering over a coughing Tyler.

"It's alright Tyler," she kept saying.

Fitz rushed over to her. "What's going on?"

"He's getting worse," Jemma answered.

Peggy, meanwhile, had gone right over to Sherlock. "We need to take a blood sample to check for infections," she insisted. "Or you will definitely get something and die."

He was adamant against it. "I am fine, Peggy. You will do no such thing."

He reminded Peggy of herself, unwilling to admit to the need for medical care. Peggy rolled her eyes.

"I swear to god Sherlock—"

"Peggy, I am totally fine." He rarely called her 'Peggy' except when he needed to make a strong point.

"So when you die, what am I supposed to do?"

"Be glad I that I was spared from the atrocious universe."

"Sounds like a plan," Peggy sarcastically snapped.

Hard way it would be then.

Tyler began to whimper and hack. Jemma was a true professional; she located an IV bag, hooked it up, filling it with the antibiotics. One hand held Tyler still as the other carefully punctured his skin with the IV needle.

"Fitz, hold him still so he doesn't shake the needle loose."

Fitz's hands rested on the baby, firm but gentle, occasionally telling the baby reassuring words in a hushed voice

Jemma watched, melting slightly, forgetting her work for a split second.

Sherlock's talk with her had truly influenced her mind. Her thoughts that had been so well contained and balanced about Fitz were beginning to be anything but. If there was even a chance he loved her back, not even fate itself could keep them apart. As she watched Fitz, so parental and sweet with Tyler, she knew that she honestly, deeply loved Fitz.

This realisation both terrified her and sent her heart pounding into her throat.

Tyler stopped crying, stopped coughing. He breathed heavily, but looked drowsy and contented.

"I think it worked," Fitz whispered. Jemma nodded.

Tyler yawned and shut his eyes. Fitz let out a deep breath, and Jemma knew how nervous he must have been doing that with a baby's life on the line.

Jemma suddenly and intensely embraced Fitz. He relaxed and hugged her back tightly to his chest.

Peggy stood up. "Fitz, you and I should go find Karen and bring the medications to her."

"Of course," Fitz said, letting go of Jemma, unwillingly.

"Jemma, you may want to stay with Sherlock and Tyler," Peggy added.

Jemma agreed. Fitz suddenly looked reluctant to leave. He glanced at Sherlock, before kissing Jemma's cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Jemma flushed and smiled at him. Peggy and Sherlock gave each other a look.

"Fitz, come along," Peggy said, snapping him out of his trance with Jemma. He quickly picked up the medications and followed her out.

*************

"You have no clearance to be up here," a nurse snapped at Peggy and Fitz.

"Agent Margaret Carter, Doctor Leo Fitz," Peggy said, gesturing at them both. "We have clearance from Doctor Karen Larson."

He nurse shook her head. "Leave. Now."

Peggy looked over the nurse's shoulder at the sick patients. "We have clearance—"

The nurse glared. "Leave or I'm calling security."

Peggy knew when to be blunt and now was an antiquate time. "Look, I have no idea who you are, and neither did I care. What I do care about is the dying people back there who need help. You singlehandedly are prohibiting their life from continuing. Move out of my way now."

  
The nurse didn't move. Peggy sighed and went right past her. Fitz followed Peggy. The nurse followed them both, protesting. Peggy ignored her.

"I'm calling security," the nurse said.

"You do that," Peggy answered carelessly. "Alright Fitz, let's get to work."

***********

Peggy and Fitz came back to the lab, slightly worse for wear. Somehow, the nurses who were short-staffed, roped them into helping to administer the medications. The patients conditions were extreme, and administering an IV to thrashing people is on the same level as baptising a cat. Peggy squeezed Fitz's shoulder.

"You were fantastic," she told him. He tiredly smiled.

  
They came in and saw Jemma listening intently to Sherlock. "How did you know you weren't going to take the wrong pill?"

"It was like chess, and fortunately I know how to play," Sherlock answered.

Jemma was throughly immersed in whatever he was explaining. Fitz cleared his throat and they both turned.

"How did it go?" Jemma anxiously asked.

"It worked," Fitz said. Jemma hugged him.

Peggy wiped her hands on her skirt and came over to Sherlock. "Not dead yet. That's nice to see."

"I'm honoured, thank you."

Karen came in, exhausted but grateful. "You all were fantastic. Thank you. We're sending them all in for CT scans now, and steadily cleaning everything."

"Try not to poison them all next time," Sherlock said, with his usual lack of tact. He subconsciously pressed his hand against his gunshot wound. Karen came over, concerned and Jemma was equally worried.

"I think you're getting an infection," Karen remarked. Jemma agreed. Sherlock dismissed them both as absurd.

Karen thanked them all and bid goodbye. On the way out, she caught Peggy's arm. "Can you do something that will make him let us run some blood tests? Anything. Sedate him for all I care, he just needs to be checked out."

"Of course," Peggy nodded agreeably. Karen left.

Fitz meanwhile, seemed a touch uneasy, watching Jemma sit with Sherlock, asking him questions. "So you both are alright while we were gone?"

"Quite," Jemma perkily replied. "Sherlock has billions of stories. They are most interesting. He has done so many fascinating things."

"I'm sure he has," Fitz said without conviction, casting a look over at Sherlock.

"Fitz is something wrong?" Jemma whispered.

Fitz gave no reply. Jemma then grasped his wrist, leading him into the empty hallway outside the laboratory.

"Fitz, tell me what's wrong," Jemma insisted in a low voice.

He wasn't sure how to word it. "Nothing is wrong, Jemma."

"I've known you for years, I know when something is wrong."

"It's just...I'm being stupid, is all," Fitz answered.

"I really doubt that," Jemma replied. She gazed up at him.

Fitz drew in a deep breath. "I suppose I was just getting a little envious of you and Sherlock, " he finally said. "You two really hit it off."

Jemma let out a short laugh, and then erupted into giggles. "You think I like Sherlock? I mean, he is incredibly handsome and has a voice that could melt the Arctic..." She trailed off teasingly. "But he's not you, Fitz." Her eyes became serious.

Fitz was taken aback. "What?"

Jemma forged ahead. "I talked with Sherlock. About us. It's not the cosmos anymore Fitz, it's just us."

"Jemma, you know what happens every time we get close."

"We...we can just keep staying one step ahead of it. Do everything we can. I will not let fate control us anymore, Fitz." Jemma suppressed herself from any tears.

He looked down at the desperate face before him. Any insecurities melted away. Words were unable to describe the emotion of both relief and fear that passed over them both. Fitz stepped forward, took her face in his hands and kissed Jemma, blocking out the universe around them.

Fate itself did not dare to pull them apart for that hanging second.

***********

"Thank you so much for your help," Peggy said to Jemma and Fitz.

The three stood in the lobby of the hospital, an hour later. Jemma and Fitz, glowing and delighted as ever, we're going to head on their way.

"Where will you both be going off to?" Peggy asked.

"Scotland," Jemma said, blushing slightly.

"I hear there were nice cottages there," Peggy lightly commented. Jemma and Fitz shared look.

"I'll send your love to S.H.I.E.L.D," Fitz said. "Coulson might actually look up from his desk."

"That'd be lovely of you," Peggy said with a smile.

She hugged Fitz and whispered softly, "Screw up with that adorable darling and I will definitely kill you." She stepped back and winked. Fitz flushed and nodded. "And thank you for everything."

Peggy turned to Jemma and took the young girl's hands in hers. "Take care, Jemma. I hope to see you soon."

Jemma was ecstatic to be actually holding the hand of Peggy Carter. "I want to see you again, for sure."

"You are a strong woman, Jemma. Don't forget that." Peggy gave Jemma an intense hug. Jemma looked like she may faint.

Fitz reached over and took Jemma's hand, a perfect fit in his own. They picked up their bags, waved goodbye, and walked out. Peggy stood a moment, staring after them. She remembered all to clearly how that felt; the promise of love, the hope. She felt oddly bittersweet, nostalgic.

Sentiment could be saved for later. Peggy reached in her purse and pulled out a stick of bright red lipstick.

***********

Peggy took a deep breath and walked into Sherlock's hospital room. He was sitting up reading, trying to ignore the searing pain running through himself every time he breathed. He looked up when Peggy came in.

"Hi," she said. He acknowledged her.

Peggy didn't notice it until now, but she realised she was actually nervous. She kept a mask of calmness. "Still won't let me get a blood sample to check you out with?"

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock, you really should. Why are you so firm against it?"

He looked impatient. "It's unimportant and I am not that injured. I want to get out of here as fast as possible."

"That won't happen anytime soon," Peggy said. She took several steps closer to him. "And the worst that will come out of the sample test is that you've been taking too much morphine, which is just common knowledge."

"True, but now if I did, that would be giving into you and we can't have that," Sherlock said, with amusement. His eyes traced her coming towards him.

"You have a good point there," Peggy said, sitting down on the edge of the bed, right in front of him. He stared at her, and she could almost hear him thinking, processing her. "You can't say you completely don't enjoy our indifferences."

"Of course not, they do define us greatly," he said.

"They most certainly do," Peggy agreed. "Fortunately, we do seem to agree on the fact that the common enemy needs to be done away with."

"True," Sherlock said.

"Even today, we solved a mystery without trying. Crime seems to be attracted to us," Peggy said, her lips twitching in a smile. She was closely sitting in front of him, so close she felt apprehensive.

"A fatal attraction indeed," Sherlock replied. He looked vaguely confused by her sudden forwardness.

Peggy nodded, and could feel her pulse elevating. She chastised herself for being so nervous about it. After all, she'd done this several times before. Why one earth would this time feel different, like it was so uneasily important? Peggy was psyching herself out and cursed mentally. She suddenly and abruptly leaned forward, more or less slamming her lips on his. Peggy didn't know what she had expected, but it was far more intoxicating than any lipstick, filling her senses with a tingling wave  He dropped into an unconscious state and Peggy backed off. She pulled out a small needle from her purse and drew a blood sample for Karen and the doctors, as Karen had instructed. She realised that her hands were trembling slightly and her heart still pounded, lightheaded.

Perhaps she would not have been so stunned if it was not for the fact that he kissed her back.

***********

Sherlock did end up having an infection from the injury, and it was fortunate they had caught it when they had, or there would have been substantial damage to his health. Peggy was relieved that her kiss had paid off. She still felt the pressure on her mouth afterwards, which plauged her thoughts.

He was still unconscious. Peggy bounced her knee lightly, as she waited in the waiting room. Of course, afterwards she could explain why she did such a brash thing, and that she had in fact saved his life.

A nurse summoned Peggy into the room. Sherlock raised his eyebrow when she walked in.

"Well, that was interesting," he said. "Very clever, I must say."

Peggy looked at him curiously. "Did you know it was a sedative?"

"Yes."

"Really? How so?"

  
"You weren't wearing that before," Sherlock said. "Which was telling. And you once mentioned you had lipstick that does that."

"You still kissed me back," Peggy said, slightly bold, slightly coy.

"I didn't want you to die without knowing the feeling," Sherlock sarcastically replied.

Peggy laughed and the subject dropped. As unusual as the circumstance had been, it still felt strangely natural that their first kiss would be in a situation where she had to sedate him or any other odd scenario. After all, they were most unusual, yet in an odd way, they worked.

A fatal attraction, indeed.


	12. The S.H.I.E.L.D Case

Sherlock had come home from hospital a week later. Peggy meanwhile, had heard nothing from Mycroft in that time span, and needless to say, was becoming apprehensive.

She needed to talk to Director Coulson, but his phone had been disconnected. Peggy was highly aware of the drama taking place in S.H.E.I.L.D and felt incredibly helpless to them. She sensed something wasn't right; there was some sort of unrest going on that hadn't been disclosed.

Naturally, the whole week passed and Sherlock was in no fit condition to take on a case, and Peggy spent the whole week turning people away. It was an interesting way to pass the time, as there were about a hundred people who stopped by every day asking for help. Children who sobbed that they lost their pet, crying teenagers who mourned that their life was over since they liked someone and that someone kissed someone else who was their best friend, adults who believed their spouses were having an affair, older people who believed that their inheritance money was going to wrong family members.

It was exactly eight days since Sherlock returned home, when Peggy got a phone call. She was lounging around her flat, eating a packet of jello that the hospital had sent home with Sherlock. He hated it jello with a passion, but Peggy had developed an odd taste for it and now she had twenty packs to eat.

"Hello?" She asked, draping her leg across the armrest of her chair, sucking on the plastic spoon.

"Peggy?"

"Who is this?" Peggy asked, taking a bite of vibrant green jello.

"Melinda."

Peggy sat up straight. "What's wrong?"

Melinda May's voice sounded strained. "S.H.I.E.L.D has a...problem."

"I was exiled," Peggy reminded.

"I know...but we need help."

"Tell me what's happening."

"I can't over the phone. We need you to come."

  
Peggy hesitated. S.H.I.E.L.D had abandoned her out in the cold, and here they came grovelling for help. Melinda, however, had been a rock for Peggy during everything and Peggy knew she owed her back.

"Alright, I'll come."

"And Fitzsimmons want you to bring you work associate as well," Melinda added. "His advice in the matter at hand will be greatly appreciated."

"He got shot last week, I doubt he'd be up to flying. I will ask him."

"A plane will be there tomorrow at six."

"Copy that."

Peggy hung up and crossed the hall to 221B. Sherlock looked bored and agitatedly was petting one of the five cats. He looked up with interest when she came in.

"Sherlock, have you ever been to the States?"

"No."

No point in diverting the question. "Would you like to fly with me to S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters? Only be for a day or two."

"S.H.I.E.L.D? Why would I be curious in going?"

"There is an undisclosed matter taking place and and your input would be greatly valued."

Peggy could almost hear Sherlock thinking. Finally he spoke, asking when they would be leaving.

*************

The arrival to S.H.I.E.L.D was a fairy easy flight, and they were there at nine the next morning. Dark clouds hovered overhead, threatening a thunderstorm. A stiff breeze swept along, causing the leaves on the trees show their backs. Peggy got out of the car, and was at once greeted by Fitzsimmons who were eager with anticipation to see them again.

Jemma exclaimed, grasping Peggy's hands in hers, "Thank you god you both have come!"

"How bad is it?" Peggy implored. The wind blew in her face and she tucked it behind her ear.

  
"All everyone is doing is arguing," Fitz said. His face was rather ashen.

Peggy started her walk into the base, Fitzsimmons and Sherlock trailing behind her. Fitzsimmons were tripping over each other, explaining what they could. Sherlock's eyes absorbed he surroundings.

Peggy knew the base flawlessly, she'd seen the blueprints so many times in Stark's lab. She went right in the front door. A large, tall, rather menacing man stood on the other side.

"Who the heck are you?" He demanded.

Peggy sighed. She had mostly worked with the Avengers, and when she had been at S.H.I.E.L.D base, she stayed in the offices that were tucked away in the bunkers, discussing confidential matters with Coulson and Melinda. Most agents only heard of her name, vaguely knew about her sudden time jump, and her founding of S.H.I.E.L.D in the 1940s.

"I'm Agent Margret Carter, I was summoned by Melinda May."

"Wait, shouldn't you be old or something?" The man asked, confused. A wave of vague confusion crossed Sherlock's face.

Peggy thought fast. "I'm afraid you have me confused wth someone else. Call Melinda. Now."

He stared at her. "She wouldn't answer, I assure you."

Jemma spoke up, "Mack, I know these people, let them in."

He paused and let them come through. It was clear he trusted Jemma.

Peggy brushed past him, down the hallway, and to Coulson's office, without stopping. She knocked briskly.

Melinda opened the door. She looked incredibly different than what Peggy remembered. She looked exhausted, stressed, and a few lines creased her face.

"Peggy, good to see you," she said. She shook Sherlock's hand and nodded at Fitz and Jemma. "Just for a moment, Coulson and I will speak to you alone, Peggy."

Peggy nodded, going inside. Melinda shut the door behind them.

*************

Director Phil Coulson sat behind his desk, equally strained looking as Melinda. Peggy sat down across from him.

"So, what's going on?"

Coulson didn't answer right away. "You look well, Peggy."

"Thank you."

"Been doing detective work, Jemma and Fitz said?"

"That would be right."

"Enjoying it?"

"Well, at least there are no secrets and lying in the work," Peggy said, significantly. Coulson sighed, fiddling with the pens strewn across his desk.

Something was incredibly off with his demeanour. "Coulson, tell me what's wrong," Peggy said. "Peggy's orders."

Coulson shifted a glance at Melinda who nodded.

"Carter, have you heard of the Monolith?"

"I'm afraid not."

"It's a portal, designed by Hydra. It connects our world to another planet."

Peggy arched her eyebrow. "Alright, keep going."

"It went out of control and sucked up Jemma Simmons. It took six months to find her. The point of the story is, we had to return to get Jemma's boyfriend, Hydra found out we were going back, and joined us."

"And obviously something negative happened," Peggy said.

"You are familiar with Grant Ward?"

"The double agent, correct?"

"Yes. He went with us. There was a turn of events, and he got killed."

"Missions that have slightly tragic outcomes are common. Why did you call for me and Sherlock?"

"I killed Ward."

Peggy's pupils dilated, she gazed inquisitively at him. "Why?"

'Why' is the simplest question a detective can ask, and the most effective. In an answer to 'why', you get motive, which one of the hardest things a detective to accurately discover.

She could sense Coulson's rising agitation. "He shot and murdered Rosalind Price, director of the ATCU, an innocent woman, just to get a reaction out of me."

Peggy was aware of Ward's previous transgressions. She had always taken an odd interest in him, for a reason she had no idea why. She'd heard of his record, what an esteemed agent he was for Hydra. If Coulson had expected a reaction from her, he got none. After all, agents kill innocent people every day.

"I get the sense that that is not all. Go on."

"On the planet, Ward and I clashed. He murdered the woman I loved. I wanted him to pay, to feel what she felt."

Peggy said nothing. Stoic behaviour is an art form to master, and she was an artist with it. Enough time with Sherlock, the man allergic to emotions, taught a person how to show nothing.

Melinda came forward. "The team found out what happened, and there has been a slow but steady fracture in S.H.I.E.L.D. Ward is a murderer, and deserved to be put down, but others don't tend to agree with that." Melinda's voice was cool.

"Why do you need me and Sherlock?" was all Peggy replied.

"The team has asked the question as to whether Ward's murder justifiable," Coulson simply said. "Who better to ask than two detectives who deal with it every day?"

Peggy nodded her head, slowly. "I want a meeting set up, with everyone there. I want to see what their input is."

She stood up and put her hand on the knob to open the door. "Coulson, what is your thoughts?"

"About me killing Ward?"

"Yes."

"It was the right thing. He needed to pay for what he did," Coulson said.

Peggy made an indication that she heard what he said, and left.

*************

During this, Fitz and Jemma took Sherlock to the laboratory, talking over each other about their latest discovery in the world of advanced healing properties. He made general acknowledgment to their words.

Sherlock's blue eyes flickered across the room, landing on a tiny sample jar of moving liquid. He gestured to it.

"Oh, um, that's the monolith," Fitz said. "Well, a fraction of it."

"What does it do?" Sherlock inquired, lifting the small, clear sample case. The small black form quivered in the bottle, before completely liquefying, heaving itself at the walls of its chamber. Sherlock studied it, fascinated.

"It's a type of portal that takes things to other planets," Jemma said. "S.H.I.E.L.D specialises in alien forms," she added.

"Yes, weren't you the lot that was there during that invasion of New York?" Sherlock absently asked, his eyes not leaving the monolith.

"Yep, and the Avengers," Fitz added.

"Interesting. What's this form's purpose?"

"Purpose?"

"Yes. You said it's extra terrestrial, and clearly it would serve a purpose to those extra terrestrials up there," Sherlock replied. "What do they use it for? They didn't use it to get through in New York. I don't believe extra terrestrial beings need one, it's never limited them before."

"The monolith isn't functional," Fitz said, his eyes tracing over to Jemma. "It's useless, dead."

"I'm merely saying that being a 'portal' is probably the least of its abilities. Keep an eye on it, this is extremely volatile, active and most certainly not dead." Sherlock cast it aside, his eyes meeting the two scientists before him. "Don't try to lie to yourselves that it isn't. Even I can tell that it's still perfectly functional and I've only seen it for two minutes."

Jemma bit her lip and was about to speak when Mack came in.

"Chief is organising a meeting, get going."

"Here we go," Fitz exhaled slowly.

They walked out, abandoning the laboratory and the monolith.

*************

The room consisted of a large table with at least a dozen or more chairs around it. Everyone flocked around. Peggy slid into the chair next to Sherlock.

"What do you think?" She whispered.

"About what?"

"Everything."

"Let me guess, someone killed someone else and now everyone isn't thrilled with it?"  
Peggy nodded. Sherlock returned it was a curious glance around the table.

Coulson stood up. Everyone ceased talking. "It's come to my attention that there is a division in S.H.I.E.L.D after the events that took place on Maveth."

Jemma folded her arms across her chest and looked over at Fitz. Daisy's eyes hardened. Bobbi Morse and Lance Hunter, meanwhile, were just whisper-arguing with each other and no doubt didn't even hear what Coulson said. Hunter moved to kiss Bobbi and she smacked him, yet didn't look cross.

"Oh yes, when you took the time to murder Grant Ward, which almost resulted in Fitz being stuck there too," Jemma said, icy.

"Jemma, it's ok," Fitz said in a low voice.

"No, it isn't. You almost got trapped there forever, Fitz," Jemma replied, becoming more heated. "It was bad enough you went there. Coulson took the time to kill Ward, leaving you stuck there too. The portal almost closed on your both."

Fitz nibbled his lip, looking uncomfortable to be caught in this all. Coulson cleared his throat.

"Communication is key for the team's well being, so each person say what you think about the death of Grant Ward."

Hunter spoke first, eager to be done. "You went off book, but his death had to be done eventually. I'm completely indifferent. Can I go now?"

"No, you can not, sit still for five minutes Hunter," Melinda chastised. He rolled his eyes and sighed gustily.

Mack went next. "Sir, with all respect, what you did was dangerous to the whole team. Even if you had good intentions, it put all of us in danger."

Coulson said nothing. Peggy's eyes surveyed across the table, soaking in the mood of the room. Tension was rising.

"I think what he did was fine," Lincoln Campbell. He crossed his arms. "Ward was evil and a murderer."

"But Lincoln, isn't a murderer exactly what Director Coulson became?" Jemma said, flatly.

"Jemma, let's keep this civil," Melinda sharply said.

Daisy said, almost under her breath, "I know it was the right thing to have Ward die, but...he was one of us. To have been murdered like that just doesn't feel right.

Sherlock suddenly cleared his throat. "Director Coulson, can you describe the crime scene?"

"He was laying on the ground, as we'd been fighting. That's when I had the advantage and took the shot," Coulson simply replied.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow briefly. "Very well, go on."

Lincoln started talking again. "You did the right thing, Director."

"I don't care if it was the right thing or not, it was plain murder," Bobbi said matter of factly. "I don't think it matters how or what happened. Killing anyone is called murder. Doesn't matter who it was on, or why. We murder people, they murder people. Simple."

"I think there is justifiable murder," Daisy cautiously said. "Depends on who, where and why."

"We know Director Coulson violated all of those," Jemma said in a low voice. Coulson shot her a look. Fitz reached over to grasp Jemma's hand under the table.

"Perhaps this all comes to a question of morals," Sherlock said. They all diverted their attention at him. "This isn't a case about a crime, this is a case about your moral code and what it allows." He folded his hands neatly.

Peggy went on, "In that case, we can't truly do anything but try to just calm you all down a bit."

"But was his murder the right thing to do, is the ultimate question," Melinda said, attempting to be unbiased.

"It was absolutely not," Jemma said, bitterly. She was digging her fingernails into the armrest of the chair. "You endangered Fitz's life, I can't forgive that."

"Jemma, I was going to be ok—"

"I DON'T CARE!" Jemma shouted. They all looked at her sharply and Jemma lowered her voice. "I can't bear the thought of you even having gone there in the first place, let alone almost dying because of some revenge path Coulson was on."

"Jemma..." Fitz said, trailing off. He kissed her forehead softly. Jemma's lips trembled.

"Maybe we need to take a break," Coulson said. He gestured. "All of you can go."

*************

An hour had passed since then and everyone had vanished away into their separate rooms. Sherlock was curious, however, about this odd place. He was undisturbed in his investigation by any agents. Act like you know exactly what you are doing, and people will just accept it.

A large steel door labelled 3A caught his attention. He went inside, flicking on a light switch. Ancient archives. Files and boxes lined the walls with dusty documents. Sherlock paged through them. They contained boundless historical facts centred around S.H.I.E.L.D. There was a small file on a man called Loki, who lead the attack on New York. Sherlock was interested in him and knew very well that Loki was a genius of a high caliber.

There was a mass murderer and leader of Hydra in the 1940s, Red Skull who was defeated by Captain Steven Rogers.

Steve Rogers had a large folder dedicated to him, his noble acts and will to die for justice. Sherlock glanced over it, processing it all. _God's righteous man_ , Sherlock thought absently.

There was several photographs of him in World War 2. Sherlock looked them over, interested. He stopped at one photograph.

A beautiful brunette carrying an extremely large gun stood next to the tall, blonde solider who held a shield.

The caption read, "Captain Steven Rogers stands beside Agent Margret 'Peggy' Carter after the victory in the battle of Paris, defeating over 200 Nazi soldiers."

Peggy. There was no denying that this was Peggy Carter, the same one he worked with. How was that even possible? She looked just as young and vibrant as she did in the photograph, hadn't aged a day. Sherlock would have dismissed it as a freak coincidence but Mycroft had always told him one thing; 'The universe is rarely so lazy as to have such a thing as a coincidence'.

Sherlock brushed his fingers lightly across the Peggy in the photograph, pondering the past six months with her. This did add several odd things up; people's remarks, Peggy wardrobe that always had an authentic vintage flair. He once had asked her to phone someone on his mobile phone, and she had an abnormally difficult time negotiating it, for being so young. She often used older phrases. She never wavered when holding someone on gunpoint, she clearly had experience.

Sherlock's work as a detective consisted not of why but of how. How was this Peggy, in the 21st Century?

He located the Margret Carter file, swiftly. He flipped it open and multiple photographs of her and information was enclosed in the musty file. There was no mistaking that this was the exact same woman. There were multiple notes of her relationship with Steven Rogers, and photographs of her with him decorated the file.

In the back of the file was a death certificate, dated January 5th, 1950, including the names of Angela Martinelli, Ana Kovács, and Edwin Jarvis. A plane crash had left them all in the middle of the Atlantic. There was a thin slip of paper, tucked away. Sherlock turned it over and saw something more confusing than ever; a slip of paper confirming that she was alive, dated 2013. The person who wrote it had messy handwriting, no doubt by a left handed doctor. It simply read:

_Carter and her associates in the plane crash are declared alive after being frozen for 63 years. No physical changes have been noticed in any of the parties, and brain development dictates that they have not aged within 63 years. Patients may develop post traumatic stress disorder, and shock. Keep all parties well hydrated and rested. Keep any visitors little to none until they recover and adapt._

"What are you doing?" A voice broke through.

He turned and saw Peggy, her hands on her hips.

"I—I was just walking about," Sherlock said, not paying attention to what he was saying. He studied her, perplexed by the question if it truly was the same Peggy Carter.

Peggy's eyes landed on the file. She brushed past him and snatched it away. "These are confidential," Peggy snapped, turning her back to him, shoving the file into the box.

"I noticed that," Sherlock answered, his eyes not leaving her.

Peggy knew that he knew. She sensed it. She kept her back turned. "How much do you know?"

"More than you'd probably like."

Peggy swallowed, her jaw tense. "I suppose it would all come out eventually."

Sherlock didn't answer right away. Then he said, "I am sure Mycroft knows."

Peggy didn't bother to ask how he knew that. "Yes."

"I must say, I am curious as to why this is kept so hidden from the government, tucked away in a dark basement."

"S.H.I.E.L.D is far different than any other government organisation you have worked with," Peggy replied. "S.H.I.E.L.D has more secrets, hidden files, and weapons than even the director himself knows about."

"And you? Are you one of their secret weapons?"

Peggy looked at him evenly. "You really think I'd tell you."

"Yes, because you trust me, despite everything."

Peggy wished he wasn't so accurate. She honestly would trust Sherlock with her life, if it came down to it. Sherlock was prone to erratic behaviour, but there was a quality about him that made him an extremely easy person to talk with. When you spoke to him, you knew he wouldn't say anything to anyone else. He possessed a consistency, a steadiness. Nothing would shock him.

She remained reticent for a long moment. It was silent, dust hanging in the air. Sherlock continued to wait. Finally she brought herself to keep speaking. "As I was saying, S.H.I.E.L.D has things that are far more dangerous than you can imagine."

"I find that hard to believe."

"S.H.I.E.L.D has ways to bring people back to life, after they die. Machines that restart the heart, rewire the mind, or even thaw frozen flesh," Peggy went on. She took in a long breath, summoning her courage to tell what happened. She hadn't told almost anyone.

"You were frozen for 63 years? That isn't even physically possible."

"Do you know who Tony Stark is?"

"I've heard about him, yes."

"I knew his father in the war. Two months before the crash, he kept giving the Jarvis', my friend Angela and I vitamins. He was a scientist, we were more than once his laboratory rats. I don't know what he gave us and he never made note of what it was. But I believe that whatever he gave us kept us safely in a coma for 63 years. When we began to freeze, it was not unlike just falling asleep for a few minutes. According to the S.H.I.E.L.D photos and documents, we were encased in an odd sort of ice shell that maintained our core temperatures at 89°, but prevented any physical ageing or changes. I woke up in a S.H.I.E.L.D laboratory. Went through multiple surgeries to restore my former strength and mental capabilities. That's all there is to it."

Peggy paused, gaiting her breath, expecting a large reaction.

"That doesn't explain why it's such a clandestine affair," Sherlock said in reply, simply and placidly.

"S.H.I.E.L.D had to wake us up using machines that would send the FBI into a panic attack, if they knew they existed," Peggy answered, relieved at his calmness, not that she had truly expected anything less. She highly doubted Sherlock ever freaked out in his whole life.

Sherlock nodded, taking it in, tapping his fingertips lightly on the steel cabinet. "Frozen in time," he commented.

Peggy made no reply, and could feel her tension draining. He wasn't alarmed by her unusual past, like most had been when she told them.

"So are you 92 to 29?" Sherlock wanted to know.

Peggy let a small laugh escape her lips. "I suppose I'm 29? I'm not sure."

"Well that was the only thing that perplexed me," Sherlock remarked. "Other than that, your behaviour already indicated to me that there was something that was amiss. I must say, this wasn't a massive shock."

Peggy relaxed completely. "I do need your help in convincing Mycroft not to investigate the case further. If he finds out what S.H.I.E.L.D has, he'll burn it to the ground."

"My pleasure to assist," Sherlock assured her.

She tilted her head slightly. "You aren't the least bit fazed, are you?"

"Peggy, I think you should know by now that I don't care what decade you're from. You're clever, resourceful, and incredibly bright. Nothing else would matter to me."

Peggy's lips twitched in a small smile, and she felt her heart unclench with its concerns.

Most of them, that is.

*************

The next day dawned, and Peggy stood by the only window in the S.H.I.E.L.D base, the rays of golden, early morning sunlight sparking in her hair. A draft blew lightly from the corners of the window, and Peggy clasped her arms snugly with her hands, in endeavour to stay warm. She shut her eyes.

No one had been in the right mindset to continue talking for the rest of yesterday. She could hear Lincoln and Daisy arguing last night until past midnight. Bobbi and Hunter were trying to avoid any conflict with other agents, and slunk about the base like they were being hunted. They spent most of the time in their room, eating Chinese take-out and watching television. Melinda was irritable and spent the rest of the day in the workout room, beating the punching bag to a pulp. Mack went into the garage and mindlessly fixed things that did not need fixing. Fitzsimmons were a see-saw of emotions that was audible from where they were in the laboratory. One moment they were yelling, the next moment they were crying, the next moment they were hugging. Coulson simply vanished into his room altogether and no one heard anything from him for the rest of the day and night.

Now it was dawn, and with any luck, Peggy could try to iron out their anger today and be flying back to London that night.

Her attention was caught by Fitz who quietly came up beside her. He had always been drawn to her and she had always had a somewhat parental closeness to him, although she was only a few years older than him.

"Jemma and I used to stand here a lot, especially when she got home from that planet," Fitz divulged, his tone solemn.

"It must have been difficult for you, to have her gone for so long," Peggy observed.

She saw him tense slightly. "Everyone told me to give up, that she was dead."

Peggy felt a pain in her heart. She knew exactly how that felt.

"I began to think she was dead, too," Fitz quavered. "Worst days of my life."

"You rescued her, and if going through a portal to another planet for someone isn't an act of love, I don't know what is," Peggy said, kindly. She curiously added, "What is the planet like?"

Fitz picked at the peeling paint at the frame of the window. "Everything looks blue and dusty. There's gravity, so you don't float away, but you feel light headed. The sandstorms start from no where and can blow you away for miles. The terrain is exhausting and you can walk all day and only go a few miles. Minutes feel like years. It's a nightmare. It's a wonder Jemma didn't kill herself."

"Fitz, when I was in the war, there were some nights where it felt much like that," Peggy said. Fitz was one of the few who knew about her past. "Some soldiers did kill themselves. But others survived because they weren't focused on themselves. They lived because they thought of the person they loved, and how they wanted to see them again."

Fitz looked down, listening.

"Jemma held on, because of you Fitz. I know you think your relationship with her is mostly one sided, but I can assure you, it's not."

Peggy squeezed Fitz's shoulder. "We ought to go find the others."

  
*************

Dottie Underwood polished her revolver on the hem of her skirt. Another mission was accomplished. This Moriarty fellow certainly was one of the few villains that kept her coming back for more missions. They were always intense and always a bit strange. It kept her occupied which was good, as there is nothing more deadly than Dottie with an idle mind.

Her phone buzzed and and one of Dottie's blood stained fingers tapped on the text.

**There's an old friend of yours at S.H.I.E.L.D HQ. You may want to pay her a visit and give her a good time, would you darling?  
—JM**

Dottie's lips curled into a smile.

*************

The meeting followed the same lines of the previous one; arguments, trivial comments. Sherlock and Peggy were vaguely bored, listening to everyone bicker so much, saying nothing themselves. It was one thing when they argued but listening to other people argue did not hold their interest. During this, Peggy had picked up enough information to form her own opinions of the situation. Sherlock no doubt had done the same.

Peggy sighed, increasingly tired of the nonsensical disagreements. Had the disagreements brought them any closer to a resolve, she would not have minded, but the fact that it only cracked them all further, rendered it useless.

More information came out, about Jemma's boyfriend Will that had died and been consumed by some strange alien creature, who used the corpse as a 'host'. Fitz had killed 'Will' to keep him from getting back through the portal. Fitz conveyed much guilt, although he knew it was already a dead person when he shot him.

Her mind was only growing increasingly more opinionated and cross as the day wore on. This was not the S.H.I.E.L.D she has helped Howard Stark create. She and Howard created S.H.I.E.L.D with the ideal that it would protect the earth and be a line of defence. To do the right thing. To remain united in times of trial. They would fight to kill only when on a mission or in battle.

Murder was unacceptable.

Yes, killing someone came along with the line of work. But to murder someone off-book, in a way that endangered others' lives and safety, was unacceptable.

Peggy stood up abruptly. She was finished with the disputes and wanted conclusion. The arguments paused and looked at her.

"Would you like this all to be cleared up right now?"

They remained silent, but were listening.

Peggy spoke in a firm, clear, cool voice. "What Ward did was unjust, killing Miss Price, Coulson. But he was following orders from Gideon Malick. He had a mission, and he completed it. What he did was not wrong, speaking from an agent's standpoint. However, what you did was wrong. You said Ward was laying on the ground, bleeding out?"

Coulson tilted his head slightly, his eyes conveying far more than words would.

"You knew he wouldn't have made it back through the portal, Coulson, if he was already bleeding out. You did not have to kill him. What you did was of your own revenge agenda entirely and it put in danger the lives of everyone on the planet and off. It was irresponsible, cold-blooded, and unjust. No director of S.H.I.E.L.D should do something so appallingly bitter and revenge-ridden. The world may have changed since I began S.H.I.E.L.D but it is based off of one thing that set us apart from Hydra; morals. S.H.I.E.L.D is above such vengeful behaviour and thus the director should be as well. Nick Fury gave you the position as director because he trusted you and trusted that you would make wise choices. You are a hypocrite to the name of S.H.I.E.L.D itself."

Peggy paused, her cheeks flushed with anger. The team, and Coulson, were eerily still. Peggy didn't drop her gaze which was firmly fixed on Coulson. The words had been said, the matter was now addressed in a way that had been harsh but brutally honest.

Sherlock, during this, listened, with a quiet and slight smirk. Peggy's firm dedication to justice intrigued him.

Coulson finally broke the silence. "What are you proposing?"

"That until you are able to be responsible to S.H.I.E.L.D and the moral grounds it has, we select a new director."

Melinda got up sharply. "Coulson cannot be replaced."

"He needs to be brought to justice for his actions," Peggy simply answered.

"He didn't do anything wrong," Melinda insisted. Her unbiased nature crashed. Coulson, her eyes, needed protecting.

Sherlock interjected. "May I say something?"

"By all means."

"Alright, so I did a similar thing once."

Everyone turned their full attention on him. Peggy recalled her conversation with Mary about this.

"I committed murder to protect someone, which in itself, was with good intention. I still has to pay the consequences. Murder is murder, plain an simple. There is no such thing as a 'noble' murder. Coulson needs to atone for his crimes, and then after he serves a sentence, can return to director position." Sherlock's eyes flickered across the room.

"So we called someone who has actually committed murder to help us decide this case," Hunter slowly said. Bobbi smacked his arm, hard.

"What was your sentence?" Daisy asked.

"Well, it never got carried out do to a rather sudden situation that came up, but I was to be sent on a suicide mission in Asia. Technically, I'm supposed to be dead somewhere in Asia right now."

Peggy studied him, his calmness. She envied his placidness over the face of death.

"There is zero way we are sending Coulson to be killed," Daisy sharply said.

Coulson cleared his throat. "I killed Ward because he is a grave threat to everyone."

"Oh, so that makes it all ok," Sherlock said, sarcastic. "People are threats. Everyone is. If you are going to kill every threat to S.H.I.E.L.D, then just wipe everyone out. What you did was purely out of revenge.

Peggy paused, looking at Coulson, who was also stoic. He truly thought wha he did was right. Peggy swallowed back irritation.

"I'm going to contact Nick Fury and alert him to the situation," she said simply. "He'll make the final call."

Melinda shifted her weight. "That does propose another issue...Nick Fury doesn't know we went."

"Don't be absurd. Of course he knows. Fury knows everything, whether you like it or not," Peggy replied.

Melinda sighed, her brown eyes intensely meeting Peggy's.

"We'll contact Fury and let him make the final call," Melinda finally said.

"I daresay we've made a conclusion then," Peggy said.

No sooner did she speak, when the sound of shattering glass echoed into the room.

  
*************

Peggy found the location of the crash first. Everyone had gone in pursuit of the sound, separately. Peggy deftly scanned the various rooms of the HQ.

She stopped the laboratory. The glass door was smashed in. Peggy stepped over the shards, her shoes making cracking noises against it. She no sooner came in when she was face to face with Dottie.

Peggy's lips parted in shock. Dottie held in her hand the small case of the monolith. She smiled at the sight of Peggy.

"Took you five minutes to find me. You're getting slow." Dottie raised her eyebrows in mock surprise.

"I wasn't the only one to survive the plane crash was I?" Peggy murmured. She walked closer.

"There was one person who was unaccounted for," Dottie said, her voice sugary.

"Clearly," Peggy said.

Her heart was palpitating, her palms were growing sweaty. There was something eerily still about Dottie and it was frightening. Dottie casually tossed the container back and forth from hand to hand.

"Do you know what this does, Pegs?" She inquired.

"Of course not and neither do you," Peggy said, her voice careful. "So set it down."

The monolith heaved itself against the walls and Dottie smiled down at it.

"I know what this does. All of Hydra knows," Dottie replied.

"You still working for them?" Peggy implored.

She took slight steps towards Dottie.

"I used to but now I got a far more interesting employer," Dottie said.

"Really? Whoever is that?" Peggy kept up the fake display of civility between them.

"He said not to tell anyone but he's Irish and quite handsome," Dottie answered. She leaned against the metal countertop.

"I never thought you'd be swayed by how a man looks," Peggy primly said.

"I've always had a thing for sexy Irishmen," Dottie murmured. "Especially when they're smart."

"He'd have to be pretty smart to impress you," Peggy remarked. She wondered where Sherlock and the S.H.I.E.L.D team was.

Dottie held the monolith up to the florescent light and peered at it. "Oh yes, the man's a genius."

Suspicion was crawling in Peggy's mind. She shut it out.   
"Anyway, he said to give you a good time, so that's what I plan on doing," Dottie continued.

She took a step towards Peggy and stood so close Peggy could feel Dottie's breath on her face. Dottie smelled of expensive perfume, alcohol and the acidic scent of blood. Peggy didn't back down and met Dottie's dead eyes, silent, ignoring the pit in her stomach.

The sound of crunching glass made them both turn. Fitz stood in the doorway, confused.

"Fitz, leave, now," Peggy hissed, not even looking over at him, her eyes locked on Dottie.

"No, no, let him stay. He's cute," Dottie smiled. Fitz tried to back out the shattered door frame, but Dottie caught his arm with her claw-like hands. She yanked him in, holding him fast with her death grip. One hand held Fitz, the other held the monolith. Fitz eyed it.

"Let him go, Dottie," Peggy ordered.

"Not a chance, love." Dottie tousled Fitz's hair, lightly. He cringed and his attempts to pull away were thwarted by her grip.

"Dottie, he's useless to you," Peggy insisted, endeavouring to keep her voice completely steady. She looked over at Fitz's wide, panicked eyes, and tried to mentally send him the message, keep calm.

"I'd say he is of some use," Dottie mused. "Where are the others?" She asked him.

"Like I'd tell you," Fitz quavered.

"I think you will," Dottie coaxed.

She let go of her death grip so she could reach up and touch his hair, tangling her fingers in it. Fitz shuddered. Peggy had that sinking feeling she always got seconds before something bad was going to go down. For a split seconds, it was entirely still in the room.

The calm before the massacre, the serenity before the death.

A smiled formed on Dottie's lips, and she grabbed his head and slammed it on the metal counter. A strangled scream escaped Fitz, and he dropped on the ground. Peggy bolted over to him and was held back by Dottie, who waved the monolith.

"Take another step and I'll drop this and I honestly don't think you want to see what will happen when it breaks," Dottie reminded.

Peggy's heart thudded in her chest. Fitz was breathing heavily, and gasping on the ground. Dottie kicked him.

"Tell me where the others are," she spat.

"I wouldn't ever tell you," Fitz retorted, his voice as jagged as the glass shards.

Dottie let out a slow exhale. "What a pest you are," she observed, aggravated.

"Step away from him," Peggy ordered.

"Or else?" Dottie arched her neck. "Face it Pegs, I have the upper hand here. I have an extremely hazardous material in my hand, so if you even try to come closer to him, I will destroy your both with it. I can do whatever I want, and you are powerless against it, as long as I have this."

"Is that so?" Peggy repeated. She knew Dottie was right, and she loathed it.

"So, now are you going to tell me where the others are?" Dottie demanded, pressing her high heel into his throat.

Fitz shook his head. Dottie rolled her eyes.

"I could do so much worse right now, but I'm short on time. So I'll make things quick."

Dottie fingered the glass enclosure to the monolith. Peggy's muscles ached, standing so rigidly.

"I suppose we'll do this the hard way then. Pegs, I promised you I'd give you a good time. Have fun!" She chirped, throwing the monolith's case on the ground.

The glass fractured and liquid pooled on the floor, growing larger and larger. Dottie bolted, shoving Peggy on top of Fitz. Dottie vanished out the door.

Peggy's mind went in a million directions at once. Before she could even stagger to her feet, the liquid grabbed her ankle and yanked them both into...

Nothingness.

*************

The team and Sherlock had heard the screams and rushed into the laboratory to find a tiny rock laying on the floor, and a disaster of chaos. The all stood in the shattered doorway. They carefully and tentatively went in, trying to avoid the mess. Sherlock's eyes scanned across the room.

"Someone else was here," he said, suddenly.

Hunter rolled his eyes and Bobbi hit him again.

"How do you know?" Daisy asked curiously.

"Perfume, and it's not anything you all or Peggy wears," Sherlock said, in what Peggy called his 'deducing voice'. Low, thoughtful, absentminded. "Alcohol as well. Vodka, so we'll take a wild guess and say the person was Russian."

Bobbi looked at the countertop that had a dent in it. "Sherlock, look at this."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "Someone got their head bashed in."

"It was a person?" Jemma nervously asked.

"Of course, there's blood on the edge, no doubt where they got cut as well," Sherlock pointed out. He saw something red that wasn't blood, snagged on a floor tile, right beside the monolith. He picked it up.

"This is Peggy's," he said, sounding immensely concerned.

"What is it?" Melinda peered over at it.

"Her fingernail."

"It wasn't anyone else's?"

"I see Peggy's hands every day, I would know."

Jemma stooped and saw the tiny rock on the ground. Jemma's stomach dropped to her feet. "That's the monolith," she stumbled to say.

"What?" Daisy's mouth parted. "Seriously?"

"Someone broke the casing," Jemma breathed.

Sherlock cast his eyes on her. "Jemma," he said, "Where's Peggy?"

Jemma didn't answer right away. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

"I think the portal opened," she whispered.

Melinda placed her hands on her hips. "Where's Fitz?"

"I-I don't know," Jemma stuttered.

"He was with her," Sherlock said, thinking.

"What?!" Jemma was panicked. "Are you sure?"

Sherlock ran his long fingers across the metal counter. "His shirt ripped, see?"

Jemma forced her eyes to the the rubble and saw, snagged, was a fragment of his blue shirt. Jemma looked like she was going to have a panic attack. Melinda swooped in and took her out of the laboratory.

Sherlock's mind went on temporary shutdown for a moment. Peggy was somewhere out there, in danger. He knew she'd be able to survive, but it was a rather sudden realisation that he cared about her and felt the overwhelming need to go get her.

He located a panicking Jemma in the hallway.

"Jemma, pull it together," he sharply ordered.

Jemma looked up, taking a deep breath. "What?"

"How long will they survive there?"

"I have no idea..."

"How long did you survive there?"

"Six months."

"Ok, well we don't have six months. You and I need to figure out a way to make it open so we can go fetch them, as soon as possible."

"I don't know how," Jemma wavered.

"You want to see Fitz again?"

She nodded.

"Right, and I want to see Peggy. So there's our initiative to make it go faster," Sherlock briskly spoke.

Jemma was in silent and stunned agreement. She looked sickly.

  
Months of research and trial and error were going to have to be solved within days.

*************

" _Peggy?" A familiar voice echoed._

_Peggy opened her eyes and saw the handsome solider staring down at her._

_"Steve, you're alive?" She coarsely asked._

_"I always will be Peggy." He kissed her forehead. "But you're in a lot of danger right now. You need to wake up."_

_"Wake up...?" She faintly repeated, air leaving her lungs._

_"PEGGY WAKE UP!"_

*************

Peggy's eyes flew open, and she was so disoriented she couldn't even see. She carefully lifted her head. Blue dust sifted through her fingers.

She thought she was still dreaming, but it was an extremely stark reality. Everything had a bluish hue. The vast mountains, the sand, the rocks. It was cold, and a faint wind ruffled her hair. Peggy blinked several times, realising that this was not a dream at all.

Peggy could feel anxiety rising in herself. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. A howl from somewhere in the mountains made her jump and instinctually, she ran.

She stumbled to the top of the outcropping and looked over a large, dusty wasteland and blinked several times to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.   
  
The Hydra symbol stood, designed from bones, rising out of the dust, a foreboding monument of death itself. 

This was Maveth.

 


	13. The Maveth Case

Peggy had been trained by S.H.I.E.L.D how to survive in extremely desolate and barren places. Although in all her experience and training, she knew that they did not (could not) train people for this.

Peggy pried her eyes from the Hydra symbol, which only cast a more terrifying vibe to the whole place.

Her initial reaction was to have a nervous breakdown, understandably. Peggy forced herself to suppress her anxiety. Panicking will not help, she reminded herself.

She needed to find Fitz. She needed to find water. She needed to find some source of nourishment. She needed to find something to use as a weapon also, from the sounds of it. Fitz came first, of course. Peggy climbed down from the outcropping and started her search.

It took an hour, she estimated, but she located him laying unconscious, strewn across a large rock. His leg had a gash in it and blood was soaking the ground around it. Peggy immediately felt for a pulse. Low. He needed medical attention, immediately. She pulled him onto the ground and took off her overcoat. She took a closer look at the wound. She could see the bone. Peggy had seen a good amount of gore in her day, but there is something about seeing something you care about injured that makes it far more off-putting. Faceless soldiers had not fazed her in her past, yet one injured person she cared about sent Peggy into a panic. She choked back a gag, and focused on wrapping the gash with her coat.

A howl shattered the silence, and Peggy's heart leapt in her throat. She had no idea what kind of animals lived here. Were they attracted to the scent of blood?

To cover a gash temporarily, I need wet soil, she thought.

She knew she needed to find water, and quickly. She stared down at Fitz, torn. There was no way to tell how much time would pass between her leaving and return.

It was a risk she'd have to take. Peggy started to walk.

Time was impossible to keep track of. Her watch had shattered and there was no sun to monitor time changes, only her internal timetable. She knew it had been an extremely long time. She felt hopelessly lost, and it was, what she assumed, nightfall here. The temperature dropped greatly, and she didn't have her overcoat on. She wondered if Fitz was even alive anymore.

She heard a sound, a splashing sound. Peggy froze and waited to hear it again. It was most certainly the sound of water. Peggy felt relief surge through her as she laid eyes on a small lake. She rushed over to it and more or less collapsed on the dusty, blue shore.

The water was clear and deep. Peggy dipped her hand in it and sucked her finger. It really was water, or at least a substance that tasted and felt like water. She put her hand in again and felt something hard brush against it. She yanked her hand out, stumbling backwards.

Curiosity got the better of her. She picked up a small rock and held it just above the surface of the water, occasionally splashing it, to cause a slight disturbance.

A disgusting, long, centipede of a creature rose to the surface and ripped it right from her hand. It crunched the rock into dust and disappeared beneath the surface. Peggy shuddered by the sight of it, her skin crawling.

Creatures like that don't even deserve to exist, she thought. Very well. Two can play this game.

Peggy had killed thousands of bugs before, but this certainly was a new experience. Peggy searched around and found two large bones. She tried not to think about what creature it used to belong to, because it definitely wasn't human bones. It was something far, far larger than any of Earth's creatures.

She kicked off her high heels and threw them aside. Her bare feet got a far better grip on the rugged earth. She dragged one of the bones over to the pond and held onto one end, while dangling the other end in the water. It reminded her of when her father had taken her fishing as a child.

The creature grabbed the other end of it, tangling itself around it. Peggy ignored the horror of what the creature looked like, and focused on pulling it out, slowly.

She beached it with one final yank. It writhed about, and it's tail hit Peggy in the shins, scraping them. Peggy grabbed the other sharp bone and stabbed the creature with one strong blow.

It stopped moving. Peggy got goosebumps staring at it, yet felt extremely proud with her victory over it. "That's what you get from messing with me, biatch," Peggy said, with a triumphant smile.

*************

She carried the water in three large, hollowed out stones, to Fitz. He hadn't come to yet, which was immensely concerning. She prayed he was not internally bleeding.

Peggy knelt on the ground, paying no attention to the stones digging into her knees. She took off the substitute bandage which was staining with blood. After her victory with the centipede, she was on autopilot and she had a feeling that very little would faze her for the time being.

She added some dust to the one stone of water, until it became muddy. She had cured many wounds before. Being frozen for all those years had not changed her memories on how to care for wounded people. She poured one stone-full of water on the gash to clean it out. She sealed the wound with the muddy mixture and rewrapped the coat around it.   
Fitz was still motionless and Peggy felt for a pulse again. Even slower than before. He needed blood.

Peggy paused, unsure how to do this. She thought as she worked. She made a small incision in one of his wrists. Blood seeped slowly out onto his wrist.

This was going to hurt. She took a deep breath and stabbed her wrist with a bone fragment she'd carried from the lake. Blood poured out, spilling on her clothes. She held it above Fitz's wrist and let it seep into the incision, adding drops of water periodically.

Congratulations, Peggy Carter, you just did a blood transfusion, Peggy congratulated herself ruefully.

She began to feel lightheaded after almost fifteen minutes of this. She sat back and sealed up her own cut with the mud mixture. Colour had returned to Fitz's cheeks and he had stirred several times.

During the medical care and the search for water, Peggy had had a mission. She was doing something. But now she sat, exhausted. The gravity of the situation sunk in and she felt utterly powerless.

She lay down on the hard ground and stared up at the stars. There were millions of stars, far more knit together than on Earth. It was truly beautiful, despite the terrifying situation.

Peggy allowed herself the pleasure of closing her eyes.

*************

She awoke later. She was unsure of how much time had passed but she made the wild assumption it was 'daytime' here. It was the brightest it had been since she'd showed up.

Fitz opened his eyes and Peggy immediately went over to him. "How are you?"

"I feel like I'm dying," Fitz replied, weakly. Peggy nodded and gave him a sip of water from one of the rocks. He looked around. "We're on Maveth."

"That we are," Peggy answered.

"How long?"

"Hard to tell, I assume about a day now."

Fitz struggled to sit up. "We have to get to shelter. I know where one is."

"Are you up to walking?" Peggy raised an eyebrow, doubtful.

"I'm not up to being eaten alive," he said.

Peggy laughed softly and helped him to stand.

*************

Jemma tapped at the computer keys, occasionally casting a glance at Sherlock who was writing something down.   
He was an excellent work partner, Jemma admitted to herself. For being cool and standoffish, he truly was an asset. He knew what he was doing and he rarely asked questions, leaving her alone to think. It was a pleasant change from having the lab techs constantly asking questions and annoying her thinking process. Jemma's stress was raising due to her panic to recover Fitz, so the peace that Sherlock provided, she was grateful for. Two days had already passed since their disappearance and neither she nor Sherlock had slept.

Hunter had his reservations about Sherlock, and made sure that everyone knew that. He hung about the laboratory, hanging around and making remarks. Hunter watched Sherlock write something down and casually leaned against the counter.

"You two dig up anything?" He lightly asked.

Sherlock entirely ignored him, as he was not the type to reply to things he did not care about. Jemma just shook her head, distressed.

"So, Mister Genius, what's your thoughts on S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"Honest reply?" Sherlock responded, not looking up.

"Why not."

"It's corrupted to the core and a waste of intellect."

"Harsh."

"You've heard worse."

"Touché." Hunter rested his chin in his hand. "So why are you helping us if you are so certain we're evil?"

"I'm not helping S.H.I.E.L.D, I'm helping to fetch Miss Carter," Sherlock replied.

"She's your damsel in distress?" Hunter smirked.

"Miss Carter never has been and never will be a 'damsel in distress'." Sherlock flicked a glance up at Hunter for a split second.

"Spill it Mister, are you two an item?"

"No, why would we?"

"Look, I'm not going to call myself an authority on the matter, but you two do seem to have a special 'thing' going on." Hunter shrugged. He took a sip of Jemma's coffee, waving off her protest.

"Where would you get that idea?" Sherlock tapped his fingers lightly on the metal countertop.

"Not many people would, you know, work tirelessly for days just to find someone and make sure they're safe." Hunter sighed significantly.

Sherlock looked up for a moment. The nonchalant manner of Hunter aggravated his already strained mind. Did everyone have to go around assuming that they were a couple? When Sherlock was under duress, he often relieved it by deducing people and most typically, insulting them. Peggy always said to people that were the victims of this, 'Don't worry about it. He always insults his own species when he's upset.'

"Lance Hunter, your name is?"

"Yes sir," Hunter replied, a teasing tone to his voice.

Sherlock's eyes scanned over him briefly. He didn't need to look longer than two seconds to know all that he needed to know about Lance Hunter.

"Quite a shame about your parents," Sherlock remarked. He was talking faster. According to what Peggy mentioned to him, he had two 'deducing voices'. The one that was quiet and slow, thinking. And the one, typically when he was agitated, that was faster paced, asked rhetorical questions, and generally was without tact. He was currently doing the ladder. "Alcoholism is a nasty addiction. Although I can't say I blame them for doing it, since your life was mostly on the streets after your father lost his job."

Hunter looked flustered. "How the bloody—"

"You took to crime as a sense of relief when some people, agents I presume, took you in and trained you. They died, didn't they? That's a shame. They're what inspired you to stay here, and then you rekindled your relationship with Miss Morse, which is now your other motivation to stay. But you don't actively support S.H.I.E.L.D and it's morals, do you? Too many secrets for you? I could imagine some of them make it hard to sleep at night. And then there is the fact that you simply are still viewed as an outcast, which no doubt triggers your narcissistic and sarcastic personality."

Hunter was agape. For once, he couldn't think of a quippy remark. Sherlock gave him a look similar to the ones Peggy often gave one of the idiots that attempted to fight her.

"I hope to god you find Peggy so you'll leave," Hunter finally said.

Sherlock gave him an amused look and resumed typing, dismissing him.

Jemma let out a deep sigh. Her voice was anxious. "All the monolith files were erased after I got back. We have to start from the beginning."

Sherlock glanced over towards her. "Doctor Simmons, how long can a person survive there?"

"Well, it depends how much it has changed since I was there...Six months would be the maximum, which was how long I was trapped."

"Right, then we have six months to figure this out," Sherlock said.

"Should be a cinch," Hunter sarcastically commented.

*************

"This planet is a lot larger than I remember," Fitz remarked as he and Peggy trekked across the blue wastelands.

"Well, at least there isn't a nightfall," Peggy replied, attempting some positivity.

They walked on, barefoot in the sand. A large outcropping was before them, and Peggy helped Fitz negotiate his way down it.

She jumped when she saw a black mass laying on the ground, a yard or two ahead of them.

Fitz sucked in his breath. "That's where I killed Will."

Peggy was much to curious to just walk by. Fitz resignedly limped after her.

Will's burnt corpse was laying facedown on the dusty ground. Peggy approached it, interestedly. Corpses did not deter her and her investigative curiosity.

"Why hasn't he decomposed?" She asked Fitz, peering closer at the corpse.

"There aren't any insects here to do that, and the animals seem to prefer live things," Fitz knowledgeably replied. "The weather here is vastly different, making it slow for things to fade or wear down."

Peggy gazed closely at it. A thought passed over her. "Does this mean Ward is around here somewhere?"

"Yeah, up on the ridge, over there," Fitz pointed.

Peggy's bare feet kicked up dirt as she climbed the small ridge. Fitz waited beneath, leaning on a large rock. Peggy pulled herself up on top of the ridge, ignoring the tear in her skirt she got from climbing.

There wasn't a corpse to be seen. Peggy took gazed about, and spotted something. She knelt down and saw blood, deeply staining the stony ground. Gunshot wounds left patterns of blood such as these, and from the drops that scattered around, it was multiple shots.

This is where Coulson shot Ward, Peggy thought. But where is Ward?

There wasn't time to deliberate the disappearance. Maybe an animal dragged him off.

Peggy brushed off her hands and knees and jumped down where Fitz was.

"He up there?" Fitz darted his eyes up at the ridge.

Peggy paused a split second. "Uh, yeah. He is."

The last thing she wanted to do was worry Fitz. He was already exhausted, stressed and injured. She smiled and took his arm, helping him to keep walking.  
*************

Jemma slammed her fist on the table, radiating a teacup which spilled its contents on the tabletop. She sank into a chair.

"I'm never going to get him back," she said, desperate, strained.

Sherlock glanced over, scribbling notes, unconcerned by her display of emotion.

"I can't figure it out. We can't open it the way we did before, we can't hold it open like we did before. It hadn't opened in months on a scale that could suck up two adult humans. It must have been triggered by something, I have no idea what." Jemma gestured wildly. Her voice was rising and she was becoming more and more erratic. "Maybe it's the gravitational pull of the moon, maybe it's the orbit of Maveth to Earth in that moment, maybe it's some bloody inhuman that can control It, maybe it's some blood sacrifice Hydra thing..."

"Doctor Simmons..." Sherlock attempted to intercept.

"I can't leave him there and I can't figure out to bring him back!" Tears were now falling down Jemma's cheeks. She angrily wiped them on her sleeve.

"Doctor Simmons..."

"It's all my fault Maveth even was opened in the first place," Jemma's voice went from watery to angry. "I hate myself."

She grasped her notebook and slammed it on the concrete floor. It was large, heavy, and made an impressive crack! sound.

"Doctor Simmons," Sherlock broke in, his tone calm but firm. "Pull yourself together."

"Pull myself together?" Jemma repeated. "Pull myself together?"

She drew in a sharp breath. Sherlock mentally braced himself for her oncoming assault.

"The love of my entire LIFE is stranded on a planet and I can't figure out how to help him, his life is in my hands and I am failing him right now. Haven't you ever lost anyone you cared about or are you always such a machine?"

Sherlock silently gazed at her. Verbal and occasionally physical abuse was not uncommon for Sherlock, he'd learned to live with such treatment. 'Machine', he'd been called that millions on times, and that was barely an insult at all to him. He waited for Jemma to finish venting, stoic. No matter what he may internally feel, he'd created an image for himself, one of emotionless logic. He had to uphold that always. He realised she was not asking a rhetorical question. "Lost someone I care about? Yes, Doctor Simmons, I have. Why else would I be in here right now?"

Jemma, breathing heavily, hesitated. She'd forgotten that Sherlock was only here in the first place because of Peggy. She wondered what was else underneath that façade of calmness.

She picked up the notebook silently.

*************

Peggy went down the ladder into the cave. Fitz followed suit, wincing in pain. She helped him down.

Peggy surveyed the cave. There was a prehistoric computer, two cots, a space suit, and various other random things, such as a stack blankets and several pairs of boots.

"This is where Will lived?"

"Yes, he did," Fitz replied. He eased himself onto a cot, propping his foot up. The bandage, her coat, was staining with blood from his wound. Peggy fetched one of the sheets and peeled off her coat from his leg. His wound looked nastier than ever, but the heaviest bleeding seemed to have stopped. Peggy rolled up her sleeves and set to work, rebinding the cast.

Fitz watched her, perspiration forming on his face. "That does hurt a little," he admitted.

"And it will, for some time," Peggy nodded. "It's good it hurts, that means you're still functioning."

"Thank you for taking care of me."

Fitz spoke in a voice that mimicked a young, frightened child. Peggy felt her heart pull at his words. She always felt a strong maternal instinct for Fitz, despite only being a few years older than him. She reached over and squeezed his hand.

"We'll get out of this, Fitz."

"Peggy, there is the strong possibility that this wound will infect and I will die if I don't get medical attention soon." Fitz was resigned.

"Fitz, don't say things like that."

"You know it too, don't you?"

Peggy sighed softly in response.

"If you make it out of this and I don't, please do something for me. Tell Jemma I love her. Tell her I wish I'd said it before, but I love her more than I have ever loved anyone. Can you promise me that you'll do that?"

Peggy gazed intensely at him. "I won't have to. You're going to live."

Fitz looked at her doubtfully.

"I promise."

*************

  
Peggy woke up hours later, unaware that she had even fallen asleep. Fitz was soundly sleeping, looking far better than he had been the previous day.

Peggy gazed about the cave, absorbing her surroundings for the first time. She quietly got up and investigated.

Something caught her eye. A spacesuit lay on the floor with a cracked helmet. She knelt down, and peered inside.

It was full of bones, human ones. Peggy was morbidly fascinated, her curiosity getting the better of her as always. She looked at the symbol on the outside of the suit and did a mental double take.

She had seen that symbol before, somewhere...

The crash had caused occasional and mild amnesia about events before the plane went down. She remembered larger events, but small details about her previous life often escaped her memory.

She shut her eyes. Visual memory. Sherlock had taught her that over the half a year she'd spent with him. Imagine where you were. Associative memory. What reminds you of the thing you forgot. Don't even try complete thoughts, just focus on snippets of memories.

Los Angeles. New York? SSR. Dottie Underwood. A bank...a pin.

The pin. Same symbol as this. The pin was a key into a gentlemen's club, which was a façade for—

"Hydra," she hissed aloud, her eyes snapping open.

Will, this man Jemma lived with for six months, worked with Hydra.

Does Jemma know that? Peggy wondered, running her fingertip over the engraving. She didn't even begin to wonder why there was the remains of a human in there.

Peggy's eyes scanned around the cave.

It wasn't a cave at all though. It was a Hydra base.

But why was Hydra here?

*************

Ana and Jarvis came as soon as they heard about what happened to Peggy. They more or less ran to the S.H.I.E.L.D base.

There wasn't much for them to do at all, except worry and linger about, awaiting for further developments with the scientists. Coulson had called in all the S.H.I.E.L.D scientists he could reach, to come and assist with the research. They all faced a large predicament. The monolith was a fragment. Daisy offered to try to hold it open, but after research, it was discovered that it would shatter under any sort of pressure at all. It could possibly open again at any moment, but there was no way to estimate when or where, and even if they did know, it would be rendered pointless if they couldn't find a way to keep it open. They'd hit a brick wall, and had no idea how to move the bricks.

Mycroft Holmes naturally heard about his brother and that he was not returning to England unless he had Peggy on Earth. Mycroft just sighed, wearily.

A week passed of countless dead ends with the studies. Jemma wasn't eating or sleeping at all, and was drinking so much coffee she was hallucinating. Sherlock didn't eat or sleep in the first place, whether Peggy was on Earth or not, so he was relatively unscathed by the events on the exterior. His concern for Peggy was constantly gnawing at his mind, like a parasite.

His phone had rung early one morning. He impatiently answered. It was Mycroft.

"Hello brother, how are you?" Mycroft wanted to know. Sherlock could practically hear him twirling a pen in his fingers, a particularly annoying habit Mycroft possessed.

"What do you want?" Sherlock did not bother himself with formalities.

"Come back to England."

"I'm extremely tempted to hang up on you right now."

"I'll tell Mother if you do."

Sherlock exhaled a sigh so sharp that the lab techs glanced over. "You know my answer."

"Don't tell me you are actually attached to this Carter woman," Mycroft accusatorially spoke.

"Two people were flung to a foreign planet, I fully plan on doing what I can to recover them," Sherlock cooly replied.

"You've never cared about the common wealth before."

"God forbid I do something good, I know. Shocking." He couldn't keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Don't be like this Sherlock." Mycroft donned his I-Am-Your-Older-Brother-And-Am-All-Knowing-And-Wise voice.

"Don't make me add Miss Carter to your list."

Sherlock's fingers tightened around the phone. The list. That bloody list.

"There's no need for that, Mycroft."

"Really? I beg to differ."

"Have we ever agreed on anything?" Sherlock's tone dictated that the conversation was over and would remain so indefinitely.

"You know I do this because I care about you, Sherlock."

Of course Sherlock knew that. His brother truly did have affection for him, when they weren't arguing about every possible thing on the planet. Would Sherlock ever admit to this knowledge? Absolutely not.

"I can take care of myself, Mycroft."

"You don't have to, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes flickered. He snapped the phone shut and turned to Jemma. Her over-caffeinated, heavy eyes looked over.

"Doctor Simmons, I advise you rest."

"Fitz needs me," she slurred. Her hands were shaking and she was tipping slightly when she stood up. He steadied her.

"Fitz is with Peggy Carter. He's in the best hands he can be in there."

*************

Days were difficult to measure on Maveth. No physical changes occurred to mark day or night, although there was a minor drop in the already frigid temperature which Peggy assumed meant nighttime. What Peggy guessed was about every other hour, they heard a strange howling sound, like clockwork. Peggy used that to monitor some passing of time. Will had kept some reserves of nourishment stocked, which Peggy and Fitz managed to eat despite them having expired. Fitz was still unwell, his wound beginning to get infected.

Peggy knew she has to go get something else for them to eat. They were barely short of starving. She remembered that disgusting centipede and wondered if it was still there.

Peggy had changed drastically over the course of a few days. Someone had to protect Fitz and keep him alive. Peggy abandoned all fears and moral code here. She made a weapon out of rocks and sticks and was completely, utterly unafraid to kill whoever or whatever ventured near their small home. She'd already killed little rodent-like creatures but in fear of disease, she'd disposed of them.

Fitz was doing well enough one day for Peggy to leave the small house. She crept to the lake and saw that the centipede was still there. She was famished and Fitz needed his strength. Peggy hesitated, nauseated at the idea of eating that thing but there was nothing else to do. She dragged it back to the house.

She attempted to cook it. Fitz took one small bite and immediately began to gag and vomit. Peggy quickly decided against eating it and destroyed the remains.

She had to think of something. What would Sherlock do? she asked herself. She knew that he'd tell her she was smarter than any planet, that all she had to do was close her eyes and think.

Peggy rummaged through the remains of their rations and came across one gold gem. A potato.

"Fitz, I don't think we'll starve here after all," Peggy murmured, her tone becoming more elated. He turned his weary eyes over at her, confused.

"Potatoes. Asexual. You can planet one and get a dozen."

A look of recognition crossed his face. "Yes, we just need water and soil."

"Not a problem, then," Peggy replied. She was weak with relief.

All hope wasn't lost yet.

  
*************

Days ticked by slowly, as if a giant clock was painfully frozen in time. Fitz was beginning to heal and Peggy took care of a small but bountiful bunch of potatoes. At least the concern about nourishment was at bay.

Will we ever get off this planet, Peggy thought desperately. She had to be a rock for Fitz, constantly, hiding her own fear. Her tough facade was beginning to slowly crack.

She recalled what Fitz said about those astronauts committing suicide and killing each other. It was so easy to let your mind go into panic, so simple to let fear overcome your senses. Peggy tried to keep her thoughts clear and orderly.   
She and Fitz grew increasingly pale for lack of sunlight, their energy rapidly draining. Peggy had never thought much about the effects of lack of sunlight until now. Even the short walk to the pond to get water became a difficult task. She and Fitz were achingly exhausted constantly. They both resorted to sleeping as a way to pass the days. Peggy remembered when she was seven and caught mono virus and had slept for almost two weeks straight. This felt very much like that. Neither of them slept restfully, but it kept away their conscious thoughts and fears.

Occasionally they both had a conversation, a deep and thoughtful one. Being on the brink of death tends to bring out the insightfulness in a person.

"What is the first thing you are going to do when you get back?" Peggy asked Fitz, wrapping herself in one of the worn blankets.

"Tell Jemma that I lived for her." The answer was immediate. Peggy smiled faintly at him. "What about you?" He asked.

"Take a shower," she replied, only half teasing. She really did want to wash her hair, and she didn't even want to imagine what was in it.

Fitz managed a laugh. "Really, though, what do you want to do?"

Peggy thought a moment. "Go home."

"Where's home?"

Peggy didn't have to think about it. "221B Baker Street."

Fitz gazed at her. "Not S.H.I.E.L.D anymore?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D has changed so much, I don't even recognise it anymore. It's not my home anymore." Peggy thought about how S.H.I.E.L.D was beginning to cross lines that should not be crossed. She wanted no part of an organisation that was following footsteps of Hydra. "221B is my home now."

Fitz murmured, "So is Sherlock like your family then?"

"I guess so, yes." Peggy shrugged her slim shoulders.

"We miss you at S.H.I.E.L.D," Fitz said.

"The way S.H.I.E.L.D has been managed lately, I cannot say I miss it." Peggy tucked her tangled hair behind her ear.

A moment passed. Peggy decided there was no time like the present to ask.

"How do you feel about Ward's death?"

Fitz was visibly taken aback. "What do you mean?"

"Surely you must have some reaction to it. We had a whole case dedicated to it. "

Fitz nibbled on his lower lip. "I—I guess I am not satisfied with him dying."

"How so?"

"I always thought I'd feel satisfied by Ward dying. I thought I'd feel inner peace. But I don't. I feel guilt and...remorse even. I couldn't look at Coulson for days after we got back. Ward did horrible things but I can't help feeling that...I don't know. He didn't deserve to be murdered. Not like that. But it's crazy to think that, because he hurt Jemma and I and tried to kill all of us."

Peggy mulled it over quietly, while he spoke. Finally she said, "What you feel is natural."

"It just doesn't add up. Ward, he protected us when he was apart of the team. He protected us and bonded with us and not all of it could have been an act. He couldn't have pretended all of it." Fitz rested his forehead on his knees.

"He didn't. He didn't pretend any of it. He fell in love with Skye, that was real. Ward was never Hydra, he was loyal to a man, just like you all are loyal to Coulson. He created the new Hydra because you all cast him out of S.H.I.E.L.D. Did any of you ever once talk to him like a human being after he was discovered to be 'Hydra'?"

Fitz made no reply.

"You were hurt, yes. But how do you think Ward felt? The only people who ever cared about him suddenly lock him up and then send him back to his abusive and manipulative brother. And you wonder why he hated you all after that."

Fitz listened silently. "We tried to," Fitz said. "We tried to talk to him."

"He needed mental help which was depraved of him while he was thrown in a basement. The reason you don't feel satisfaction over Ward's death is because you know it was unjust. Because deep down, you still had hope there was the man who had protected and kept you safe."

Fitz finally whispered, "You're right."

Peggy's glassy brown eyes studied him. "You miss Ward."

"Ward was like my older brother," Fitz admitted. "And I know if it was he and I stuck here, he would have kept us both safe."

"You know he didn't pretend to like you," Peggy replied. "How could he not adore you?"

Fitz weakly laughed. He lay back on the blankets.

"Will the others come get us?" He eventually brought himself to say.

"They will, of course," Peggy replied, masking any of her doubts. "Of course they will. Jemma and Sherlock are probably researching how to open the portal as we speak."

"Do you miss Sherlock?" Fitz wanted to know.

"I miss Earth, that's for sure," Peggy said, listening to the wind howling above them, ominously.

"Peggy, stop averting the questions about him."

She let out a deep breath. "Fine," she matter-of-factly said. "Sure I miss him, I miss everyone."

"You really are being stubborn." Fitz ran his fingers thru his hair.

"What do you mean by that?"

"You clearly are in denial of any possible attraction or connection you have to Sherlock, mostly because you refuse to move on from Steve," Fitz said, flatly. It didn't take a genius to figure that out.

Emotion pricked Peggy's eyes at the mention of Steve. She glared at Fitz. "You're crazy."

"What other explanation could there be?" Fitz waved his hand in the hair. "Sherlock worships you, he's attractive and smart...and he clearly cares about you. And from what I can tell, he doesn't like anybody else."

"It's far more complicated than that," Peggy spat.

"I'm just trying to say, Peggy, you're going to miss out on something great if you don't realise it. I would know." Fitz's eyes were compassionate and knowing.

Peggy made no reply. Fitz decided to change the subject, after it was clear she would speak no further.

"How long has it been?"

"Maybe a few weeks?" Peggy shrugged slightly.

"It feels so much longer."

"It's hard to tell, but I'm sure it hasn't been too long."

*************

In actuality, it had been four months.

Jemma was officially going completely mental. She couldn't focus, refused to sleep until she physically collapsed, barely spoke, and when she did speak, it was about Fitz. Usually it was nonsense, about them being 'cursed' and 'the bloody cosmos'. Sherlock, meanwhile, was growing thinner than he already was, even more introverted and silent and carried the scent of cigarette smoke.

During this time, Sherlock had educated himself on various information about S.H.I.E.L.D. Grant Ward continued to be a source of interest to him, but most of all, he was interested in Coulson.

Coulson summoned Sherlock to his office, one particular evening.

"We don't allow smoking here," Coulson said, barely looking up from his desk.

"Why did you really call me?"

Coulson seemed uncomfortable. His physical behaviour was simple to read; he was nervous, wanted to talk. Sherlock sighed.

Why do people like me, it's so inconvenient, he thought.

"Tell me what you are going to really say," Sherlock ordered.

"I don't even know why I trust you." Coulson shook his head, finally making eye contact.

"Oh, I'm sure you knew, or you would not have called me in here in the first place," Sherlock offhandedly commented.

Coulson took his time, formulating his thoughts. Sherlock waited, patiently. Coulson eventually spoke up.

"Have you killed people, Sherlock?"

"Yes, a couple."

Coulson gave him a curious look.

"Well, there was the man at Baskervilles who I was attempting to interrogate and he blew himself up. Which wasn't exactly my fault, he didn't have to go step on a bloody landmine. There was the man who was attacking Miss Carter but he was psychotic and any person who attacks Miss a Carter deserves it. And there was a businessman I did shoot but he was blackmailing people and had it coming." Sherlock was unemotional, cool, offhand.

"Do you ever regret it? Any of it?"

"No. As I said, it had to be done."

Coulson nodded and said nothing.

"So you are asking me about this because you parallel yourself to my situation," Sherlock figured, calmly.

"I never got the peace of mind I had hoped for when Ward died," Coulson admitted. "Everyone looked at me differently. Especially Melinda. How is it that you have peace of mind and I have nothing but confusion and regret?"

Sherlock paused a moment before saying, "I am a detective, I see more murderers than I do normal, sane people. Almost ninety percent of the time, the murderers turn themselves in or confess their crime to someone. Is that what you are doing now, because you cannot handle the regret anymore?"

Coulson didn't reply. He fiddled with the screws to his prosthetic hand. Sherlock watched him.

"I got it cut off," Coulson explained. "I touched something and it started to infect my arm. It was a small price to pay to have my arm removed."

"Did it happen during the inhuman breakout?" Sherlock curiously wanted to know.

"It was, yes."

"Where was your first prosthetic hand?"

Coulson looked confused.

"Well yes, you had another one. The inhuman breakout was months ago which was when you were injured, you're clearly adjusting with this new one. Where is the first one?"

"On Maveth," Coulson admitted.

"Interesting place for a disembodied hand." Sherlock gazed at Coulson. There was something so interesting about Coulson. Sherlock saw much of himself in him. The facade of that they knew what they were doing, despite their own confusion. "I left it there when I shot Ward."

"How ironic," Sherlock remarked, folding his long fingers symmetrically across each other.

"It always comes back to him and that planet," Coulson suddenly said.

"Our pasts always come back, Coulson." Sherlock knew this all too well. "They're apart of us, in our DNA."

Finally the defendant came to the court and confessed the crime. Sherlock was to be the judge and hear the plea. Coulson broke out, "I never killed Ward out of anger over what he did to us here. I killed him because he shot a woman I loved."

"Bitterness is a paralysis. Love is a far more vicious motivator." Sherlock's eyes were shadowed. "I know that's what you were motivated by. Love is the most destructive force on the planet. Perhaps that's why I abstain from it."

Coulson was tapping his metal fingers on the desktop. "I wish I could go and fix what I've done. Maybe not bring Ward back, but...have not reacted the way I did."

Sherlock sighed softly. "What good will it do to dwell on it? You made a large mistake, sadly, humans do that. Does that make your choice right? No. But you are human. Humans are flawed disasters. We do things we regret, and we have to live with that." His tone indicated experience, as if it had been a trail to learn this for himself.

The clock ticked. Coulson stared down at the desk, wrapped up in his thoughts. Sherlock's intelligent eyes observed him for a long moment, quiet, patient, and placid. Coulson clearly had nothing else to say.

"You're only human, Coulson." Sherlock got up. "And so was he," he added with significance.

Sherlock left Coulson's office without another word.

  
*************

Mary called Sherlock, moments after he left Coulson. "How are you?" She asked.

"I should be asking you that. Had the baby yet?"

"Not due for another month yet."

Sherlock was a surprised. "No offence, Mary, love. But you are massively pregnant. A whole month?"

"It turns out, I'm not having one baby. That's why I got so big, so early."

Sherlock almost dropped the phone in sheer surprise. "Twins?"

"Yes," Mary's voice clearly indicated her joy.

"Well I called that from day one," Sherlock remarked, getting over his surprise instantly.

Mary laughed. "John sends his love. We'd come to you, but pregnant women can't fly. And in case I'm early—"

"No, please don't." Sherlock watched the agents walk by, as he leaned against the brick wall in the hallway.

"Have you been smoking again?" Mary demanded.

"Mary, now isn't the best time to start chastising me," Sherlock wearily replied.

"Sherlock, my god, you're going to be dead before the twins come if you keep that habit up!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mary—"

Mary sighed. "Just please take care of yourself. I know how you get."

"Miss Carter is 99% of my impulse control, so I'm not quite sure how that'll go," Sherlock answered. "Take care, Mary."

He hung up the phone. Ana was walking down the hall and instantly came over to Sherlock. There was something different about her lately that Sherlock had noticed, but hadn't bothered to look any deeper at. He was far too preoccupied.

"Can we talk?" She more or less begged.

Sherlock began to feel as though he was a psychiatrist for everyone there. He dutifully followed Ana into a small meeting room.

"Well, I have some news." Ana bit her lip.

"You're pregnant." Sherlock didn't even hesitate.

Ana's eyes widened in shock. "How did you know?"

"It was a good guess, you have been distributing some of the characteristics lately."

"Well, you're right. I am." Ana's reaction was far different from Mary's, upon hearing she was pregnant. While Mary had practically overwhelmed with joy, Ana looked concerned. More than concerned, actually. Devastated.

"So, what's the issue?" Sherlock asked. "Despite the whole 'the world is over populated enough as it is and you are introducing another human into a world of terrors and death' thing."

"Back in the 1940s, I got shot and it perforated my lower abdomen. I couldn't have children. At the time, surgery couldn't help me. When I woke up, now, I underwent surgery to correct the damage. It seems they fixed it and I can carry again." Ana did not look thrilled in the least. She almost looked like she was going to cry. Sherlock was always uncomfortable around emotion and prayed that she wouldn't. Ana continued, "The surgery couldn't correct all of the damage though. They didn't anticipate I would become capable for child bearing again. There is a very strong possibility I will die giving birth or the baby will die while its growing. Most likely, it will be premature and die after birth. Either way, I'll most likely die from blood loss."

Sherlock listened quietly, saying nothing. Ana was in visible duress, wringing her hands together. "It will break Jarvis when he finds out." Tears were forming at Ana's eyes. Sherlock continued to say nothing, opting for silence. "And I can't die and leave him a child to raise on his own."

"Is abortion an option?" Sherlock finally asked, bluntly and matter-of-factly.

"It still would probably kill me. The damage is too severe for any more trauma." Ana wasn't sobbing per say. She was in the state of emotion where you are in resigned agony. She wished she could sob but her body did not give her that relief. Instead, tears fell quietly and agonisingly.

Sherlock handed her a tissue, in thoughtful silence. He looked down at her, studying Ana for a long moment. "You came to me because you wanted to ask me something, correct?" He estimated.

"Yes," Ana said, gathering herself. "Sherlock, if anything happens to me or Jarvis and the baby lives...can you and Peggy raise it?"

Sherlock would have been in less shock if an actual explosion had gone off in the room. It took a moment to process. Ana was asking him to be a parent. With Peggy.

"I trust you and Peggy more than anyone else," Ana said, quietly.

Sherlock quickly said, realising she expected an answer, "Uh, yes. Of course."

Won't Peggy be in for a surprise when she gets back, he thought, dryly.

Ana, ever enthusiastic no matter what, got up and thrust her arms around him in a tight embrace. Sherlock patiently waited for her to finish. He never understood the point of physical embrace but reticently submitted to her's.

"How is it going with Peggy?" She asked, stepping back.

"To be expected."

Ana nodded, somber. "You will be able to get her back here, right?"

Sherlock, sharply replied, "Of course I can." He felt weight of his own failures weighed on him every day and he had grown callus to them but he refused to have Peggy be one of them.

"I was thinking in the shower earlier..." Ana trailed off, lost in thought.

"What?"

Ana bit her lip, thinking. "It's a portal, right? Portals have two sides. So maybe there's a way Peggy can open it."

Sherlock gazed at her incredulous, before planting a kiss on her forehead. "Ana, you are a genius." He clasped her arm and lead her into the laboratory.

Jemma was sitting on the floor, papers askew around her, rubbing her temples with her fingers. Sherlock yanked her to her feet as he walked over to the computer monitor. Ana followed him.

"What's going on?" Jemma wanted to know. Her voice was dry and cracked.

"This lovely lady pointed out that maybe Miss Carter and Doctor Fitz can open it from their side." Sherlock gestured to the computer diagram of the large monolith. "Just because we can't open it here doesn't mean they can't open it there."

Jemma's eyes brightened and you could almost hear her mind click. "We destroyed all of the monolith here except for that fragment. But over there— its unchartered waters. There could be numerous portals to earth, not always thru the monolith. Maybe in that Dead Zone or whatever that Will told me not to go to. The planet is huge, there's dozens of possibilities. Maybe an entirely intact monolith. Maybe a new portal altogether."  
Sherlock pulled out the glass case holding the monolith fragment. "See the dust inside the case? We never opened the case to dust it for obvious reasons. Maybe it's not dust. If this thing opens from both sides, that's sand from Maveth that is brought back here."

There was no chance they'd open the case and find out. Instead, they found a bright light and held the case underneath it.

"That's not grey dust, that's blue sand," whispered Jemma. "That's from Maveth, there's no doubt."

"So this is clearly not the only opening to the portal. It's definitely not one sided like we thought," Sherlock remarked.

"There's only one small issue," Ana pointed out. "They have no idea that they need to find the other side."

*************

Fitz stepped outside their small home and surveyed the vast, empty planet. A moment later, Peggy came beside him.

"It would almost be beautiful if it wasn't holding us hostage," Fitz remarked, taking in the sights of the teeming mountains and the miles and miles of blue dust.

"There's always beauty in pain, Fitz. Always," Peggy softly told him. She gave him an affectionate look. She was only a few years older than him, but had become a mother and protecter of him. As their worlds fell apart, they fell into specific roles for each other and it fit like pieces of a puzzle.

"Peggy, I need to move about for a few minutes," Fitz told her, desperate to move his aching muscles. He started to walk away.

"Be careful," Peggy warned him, sitting down on the ground, tracing the dust with her finger.

The emptiness that encompassed the planet reminded Peggy of what it was like after a bombing, back in the 1940's. In many ways, Maveth reminded her of her days back in the army. The smell of death, that silence that made your skin crawl in cold dread, the feeling that in a split second anything could happen, the smiles before the homicide, the peace before the storm.

She had no idea how long they'd been there. It felt like eternity. She had come to realise all the things she had overlooked, back on earth. The simplicity of day to day activities. She missed Ana and Jarvis. She missed the five cats that now resided at 221B. She missed London. She missed earth. She missed the adventures she had with Sherlock.   
She would never admit it to Fitz, but she missed Sherlock more than she thought she would. His voice, always calm and low. His eyes, so reflective, always looking at her to make sure she was alright. The fact that out of anyone in the world, he had accepted her into his minuscule ring of people he trusted. He was utterly insane sometimes, but Peggy had come to appreciate it and grown to actually like it.

She also thought of Steve constantly. What would he be doing while she was here? How would he react? She missed the man who had always been there for her. Her guilt over what happened to him only grew stronger. And here, on Maveth, there is no place you can get away from your thoughts.

An unearthly howl echoed across the planet. Peggy looked up sharply. "Fitz?" She called out.

She heard a strangled scream. Peggy flew to her feet and rushed over where she heard the scream, her heart pounding.

Fitz was nowhere to be seen. Fear rose in Peggy's throat. She took a deep breath and looked around. It was silent again, she heard nothing but her own breathing and her heartbeat pounding in her ears. She spun around, listening.

Another scream echoed across the planet and Peggy started to run, faster than she ever had before. She found Fitz behind a boulder, being mauled to death by a horrific beast. It was the most terrifying creature Peggy had ever seen, the size of a tiger but covered in long, scraggly hair, with an array of horns going down its back, legs and face. It's eyes were garnet red. Peggy was in mute horror for a second, time slowing down, that feeling coming over her right before something atrocious happened. She couldn't move for one long moment. She drew in a deep, long breath and screamed, to get it's attention.

The animal looked up from attacking Fitz. Peggy saw that Fitz was soaked in blood and she couldn't even tell if he was alive or had all his limbs still.

The animal started running. At her. Peggy bolted and she heard the animal chasing her, it's feet pounding the ground behind her. There was practically nowhere to hide on this barren planet. The animal was fast, faster than she had thought it would be. A bone chilling howl echoed from the animal's throat and it almost froze her dead in her tracks.  
As Peggy ran up an incline she saw the Hydra symbol made of bones slowly rise before her. An idea crossed her mind, a dangerous one. It was her only chance at getting this animal to die.

It was a sharp, rocky drop right before the bone yard. Peggy sucked air in her lungs and jumped, tumbling down the incline, throwing herself under the Hydra symbol. The animal jumped as well, but had no coordination like she did. It did exactly as she hoped it would; be so obsessed with killing her, it abandoned any reason. The animal threw itself at the Hydra bone monument, and was stabbed by one of the tentacles of the octopus in the symbol. It uttered an unearthly howl and ceased moving,

Peggy's heart was beating faster than it ever had before. Her chest hurt and she couldn't breathe. Blood from the animal carcass dripped down onto her, leaving dark red stains on her shirt. It was inches from her face, it's red, dead eyes glaring down at her. Peggy shuddered, her body growing cold. She crawled out from under the bone structure and suppressed a rueful laugh. Hydra had saved her life.

Peggy felt delirious, staring at the animal stabbed through the heart, staring at the endless blue dust. She was covered in scratches and gashes, her legs felt too weak to even stand. This was the skinniest she had ever been in her life, she could see her bones pushing up through her torn up flesh. Peggy couldn't stand the planet any longer. Peggy didn't know if she was going to faint, vomit, or die. She would have welcomed death with open arms, death would be such a sweet release from this agony. She collapsed down onto the sandy dune, overlooking the wasteland of bones.

Soon, she thought, I'll be a pile of bones to add to this planet's disgusting gallery.

Fitz was bleeding to death, somewhere. Peggy didn't remember where. She shut her eyes and lay back. Fitz had mentioned that Will had forbidden Jemma to coming out here. That Death was here. Peggy wanted to close her eyes and embrace it.

A loud sound echoed across the wasteland. It sounded familiar, and Peggy realised she heard it every other hour, back at the shelter. It had almost been like a clock for Peggy and Fitz. Peggy's heavy eyes fluttered open and she saw something impossible. A rock just like the monolith opened, dragging some sand with it, before closing up.

Peggy wondered if she had dreamt it. Surely she had. She lay back down, drifting in and out of consciousness.

*************

_"My darling, what are you doing laying there?"_

_"Steve?" Peggy tried to focus on the face before her. He smiled down at her, a bittersweet smile._

_"Peggy, don't give up. You saw something. Get Fitz. Bring him here. Go home," Steve reached down and touched Peggy's cheek._

_"You're my home, Steve," Peggy said, tears pricking her eyes._

_"Not anymore, darling." Steve shook his head, his eyes saddened but sweet. "You said so yourself."_

_Peggy struggled to sit up. "No, I was wrong."_

_Steve settled down in the dust next to her and put his arm around her yet she could not feel the pressure of his arm._

_"Sherlock Holmes is a very lucky man to be able to live his life with you. I can't, but that's ok. Peggy, we had a wonderful life together while we had it. Instead of dwelling on what could have happened with us, focus on what we did accomplish together. It was amazing. But you will never be happy if you keep holding onto me."_

_"I don't want to move on from you, Steve," Peggy's voice was dry and cracked. "I'll never love anyone like I love you."_

_Steve smiled slowly, thinking. "Remember the young, skinny little boy who signed up for a lab experiment, and embarrassingly enough, called you a 'dame'?"_

_Peggy shakily laughed. Those memories were so vivid. It felt like yesterday she had been smiling at the boy who was willing to spend his whole life waiting for the right partner._

_"You just wanted to find your right partner and spend the rest of your life with her," Peggy said._

_"And I did. You will always be my right partner. But a thing isn't beautiful because it lasts. What we had was magical, but you need to let me go now. Ok?" Steve's eyes were soft and warm._

_"Please don't go," Peggy pleaded, grabbing his arm._

_Steve was getting up and stepping away. "Let yourself love again, Peggy. Open up yourself again to the world. This is a new century for you to begin a life in. You got a second chance in a whole new century. Few people get the chance to do that."_

_"I will never love anyone more than you," Peggy insisted. Her fingers slipped from his arm._

_"My beautiful, darling Peggy. You will fall in love again and it will be magnificent," Steve was smiling now, hope glittering in his eyes. He tone suddenly shifted to urgent. "Now get off this bloody planet. You're dreaming me, what you saw was not a dream. Fitz is dying. Get him, come back here and it will open again. That sound you always heard every other hour was this portal. You can go home. Live a wonderful life. Do this for me." He touched her hand one last time. "Goodbye, my love."_

_"Goodbye, my darling."_

*************

Peggy's eyes flew open, and she felt damp tears on her cheeks. She felt odd, strangely renewed, a sense of urgency flooding over her. She kept to her feet, ignoring the pain and started running. Her thoughts vanished from her mind, she felt purely nothing. Just the running words over and over, go, go, go, go, go...

She found Fitz, bleeding out on the ground. Peggy's mind felt like it was a machine, not registering it at all. She automatically started to pull the unconscious Fitz towards the wasteland. He was dying, quickly, but at least the animal hadn't torn off any limbs. It was incredibly strenuous to drag him, and her arms and legs throbbed. She yanked him over towards the same place she'd seen the portal open up.

She saw the rock, their way home. It could open at any second. There was absolutely not turning back at this point. She looked across the planet one last time. It had sucked the life out of her very soul.

"Goodbye Maveth," she hissed with venom. She gazed down at the dying Fitz, over at the Hydra symbol with the animal stabbed through it.

She didn't clearly remember what happened afterwards, except being enveloped by the liquified rock.

*************

Peggy was slammed on a concrete floor. Something was so bright. She opened her eyes and realised it was a florescent light. She closed her eyes against the brightness It took her a moment and she realised where she was.

On Earth. In the S.H.I.E.L.D laboratory.

Someone must have screamed because Peggy's ears started ringing. A split second later she opened her eyes slightly and at least a hundred people were crowded around her. She vaguely heard sobbing, over her ringing ears. Peggy turned her throbbing head a millimetre and saw Jemma sobbing, clutching Fitz. Jemma ignored the blood and gore, just hanging onto him.

"Is he alive?" She heard Coulson say. Jemma stammered that she didn't even know. He was soaked from head to foot in blood and one of the lab techs left the room in shock.  
Peggy couldn't handle the sounds and the lights. It felt like a million people, mostly lab technicians, were asking her questions and prodding her.

"Shut up."

Peggy's eyes opened, ignoring the pain of the bright lights. She knew that voice, that phrase echoed so many times to so many people. The lab techs quickly stopped talking.  
Sherlock knelt beside her and Peggy finally got to see him after what seemed like years. He looked different. A little more gaunt, a little older. Peggy supposed she did to. His eyes had never changed, though.

He lifted up her limp form as though she weighed nothing, which was an extremely reassuring gesture to Peggy. She pressed her head against his shoulder for stability. Her head felt like a million bees were swarming inside. "While you useless laboratory technicians keep doing whatever it was you were trying to do, Miss Carter is going to a doctor. Now."

"Of course sir," they hastily replied. Peggy's lips almost would have smiled. People always seemed frightened of Sherlock. Some things never change.

She felt clarity beginning to return to herself. Gravity was making an impact and her lightheaded, groggy feeling was vanishing. Now she felt hyper sensitive to everything. The light, the sound, the people...

Peggy was laid down on a bed in the medical ward. More florescent lights. She inwardly groaned, keeping her eyes tightly closed. A doctor came in and she heard Sherlock's familiar voice telling him what happened. As the doctor started to look at Peggy's wounds, she felt Sherlock's hand enclose around her's, tightly yet gently.

Some things do change.

*************

Dottie Underwood listless paced about her cramped hotel room. On the street below, a drunken fight had broken out. She ignored the sounds of the hitting and punching, instead, she picked up the phone. It answered after the first ring.

"I'm bored," we're the first words out of her mouth.

"You won't be soon, Miss Underwood. Some of my men are stopping by for a visit. Treat them well and I'll have a special mission for you."

"What kind of mission?" Dottie twirled the phone cord around her finger, turning it purple.

"Miss Carter and Mr. Fitz are alive."

"They found a way back?" Dottie was startled, but not overwhelmingly surprised. Leave it to Peggy, she thought.

"Yes, I did anticipate that, however. Miss Carter is extremely difficult to get rid of. Oh well, it does make it more fun when you add them in the plans."

"What kind of plans?"

"I want to throw S.H.I.E.L.D a curveball. I want to domino effect some of the people there. Know anyone who can set everything off?"

Dottie's red lips curled in a smile. "I know just the girl."


	14. The Sister Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually thought I was done writing this fic. But thanks to a lovely person in the comments, I was inspired to get going again. Season 4 of Sherlock also kicked off my muse too. Because I have a lot less time than when I would write the 6000+ word chapters, I'm going to make the chapters shorter now (but hopefully more frequent). Thank you for reading! :)

"He won't leave his room."

Peggy's tone was low, anxious. Rarely did she sound like that. Had she been anyone else, Sherlock would have responded with apathy, coolness. He gazed at her a moment, from his plaid chair, thinking. Fitz and his wellbeing was of little consequence to him. Peggy, however, was of consequence. If she was unhappy, he desired to fix it was quickly as possible. He brought himself to his feet and crossed the hallway to Fitz's door. Peggy followed him, knocking her knuckles lightly against the door. Silence. Peggy pressed her forehead against the door. "Fitz, please come out and talk to us."

Sherlock didn't look away from Peggy's thin and anxious features as he leant forward slightly. "Miss Carter wants to talk to you."

There was no answer. Concern washed over Peggy, urgency rising within herself. Grieving was a processes deeply familiar to her and entire isolation was truly the worst thing you can do; she knew this firsthand. She pulled away, grasping Sherlock's shirt sleeve in her hand, leading him further away from the door.

She dropped her tone into a whisper, so Fitz would be unable to hear her. "What should we do?"

"Grieving takes time---"

"No, I mean about the Jemma thing. She's alive out there and scared. We have to do something." Peggy took a step closer, rubbing her thin arms with her small hands for warmth. She'd lost significant weight, become far more frail looking since she'd returned from Maveth. An ashy grey tinted her creamy porcelain skin, bones protruding out of her figure. As if she constantly had a chill, she wrapped herself in sweaters and sat for hours in bed, unmoving. Her concern for Fitz was one of the few reasons she even rose every morning. She spoke nothing of Maveth, almost as though her mind blocked out the memory altogether.

Mary, who had an acute eye for shock symptoms, had briefly mentioned that she should see a therapist. Peggy retracted at once, insisting that she was perfectly fine. No one else brought it up afterwards, and as the weeks passed, no one seemed to realise her hidden duress. Her change went unnoticed by all but one person.

He handed her his jacket which she accepted, wrapping it around herself. She didn't thank him and didn't have to.

"We can't make a move or she'll be dead for certainty."

"Bloody hell." Peggy lashed out with more animosity in her words than she had intended. In a softer tone, she went on, "Jemma is already dying as we speak. She needs us."

Not wavered by her, he replied calmly, "You are taking this far too personally. You need to be more objective."

"Objective?" Peggy hissed the word like nails and it dug deep. Her dark eyes flashed with indignation. "I will never forgive myself for what has happened to Jemma. We have to do something."

She didn't recoil under his hardened stare. Straightening her back, bringing herself to her full height, she arched her eyebrow. "You're the genius, you can't tell me you don't know how."

He studied her a moment, eyes tracing her peaked features. Had it been anyone else, he'd immediately dismissed them. Peggy Carter was not anyone else. She smirked slightly; she won.

"Fine. We do this as a case." His lengthy sigh was his only sign of resignation. "Fitz is our client, however. His girlfriend is missing. We do what we can to find her but if there is no way we can, we drop the case. Understood?"

\-----

Jemma's screams silenced as the days ticked by. Screaming was a pointless waste of energy. There was no way to resist them physically. Sebastian, much to Jemma's surprise, did not lay a hand on her and was rarely even there. Dottie, however, was as strong as Natasha Romanoff but without the heart; she was a ruthless machine. Resisting the urge to scream was the only act of defiance Jemma could perform. Dottie battered her to shreds but she did not give her the satisfaction of hearing her beg for mercy.

Occasionally, they left her alone in her room for days and the house would be silent. Jemma wondered if they left her to starve, alone, trapped, with no way of escaping. Escape was tempted by many of their prisoners but no one succeeded, Jemma discovered. One night, Dottie had come into Jemma's room and told her a story about what happened to the people who tried to escape. Jemma could not cover her ears, could not leave the room, could not interrupt as she was forced to listen to the graphic and nauseating details.

The shocking contrast was how they treated her when they were not interrogating and torturing her weak frame. Her room was comfortable, her clothes were always freshly washed, they fed her well. Had they thrown her in a dank cell and left her to rot, she would have been less frightened. Far more haunting to her was the stark difference.

Rational thinking gradually was wiped away with the terrifying need for escape. Back at S.H.I.E.L.D, cyanide pills were given to all agents for hostage situations like these. Her room was bare of any sharp objects, there was nothing remotely toxic that she could access. Not as if she _wanted_ to die; on the contrary. An option out was still desired, a possible way to escape the torture. It was logical, it made sense in her mind to at least have the possibility if things got too bad. Suicide was the responsible thing for an agent to do, especially if they inquired further about S.H.I.E.L.D.

The bath. Jemma sat on the edge, turning on the tap. Out of the corner of her eye, as she began to remove her clothing, she watched the bath fill with water. It was deep, just deep enough. Temptation entered her mind like an impulsive flash of light. Pausing her undressing, she hovered over the bath, watching the ripples as the water crept up the inside. The tile floor grew damp as water began to splash onto it. Frozen, transfixed, heart accelerated, she couldn't rip the impulsive urge to just get in and close her eyes. Sink her torn up body deeply, fully submerge, further and further down until she wasn't drowning anymore.

A hand clamped over her's, rattling the illusion. Sebastian grasped her waist roughly with one arm, shutting off the water with his other hand. Jemma struggled, her hands pushing against him as he pinned her against the wall, his eyes burning into her's so intensely that Jemma wanted to look away.

"You think other's haven't tried that before?"

Jemma's chest rose and fell rapidly, her arms beginning to throb from his grip. "Get your hands off of me."

He didn't back away but his grip loosened. "The water is on a timer. We know if it's high enough to drown in. I really hadn't thought you'd try."

Jemma silenced her qualms. Her fears of him and his brute strength drained from her thoughts, leaving only dry, angry words."Just let me die, you sick animal." Her head moved, near his face. "Put a gun to my head and pull the trigger, hold me underwater until I suffocate, I don't even care. Go ahead." Nothing akin to weakness resonated in her tone. Almost as though she were challenging him, she leaned forward, dangerously close. Her breath was heavy and metronomically even, as she continued, "Do it. You know you want to."

"You're too important to kill," Sebastian replied. He let go of her one arm, lifting his finger to trace her jawline. He was surprisingly gentle and Jemma didn't push his hand away. She was too curious to see what he'd do next. His eyes, dark and crippling, raked across her. Chills raced down her arms; Jemma was unaware if it was from being thinly clad or fear. "And too pretty."

Aggression, carnal and provocative flooded her veins. "You think I'm pretty?" She wanted to tick him off, wanted to shove back at him. Her mother had always called her proper and delicate; usually it was intended as an insult. The Jemma that mimicked those characteristics evaporated in his hands. Her new skin felt comfortable, almost enjoyable. Thinking clearly was a thing of the past; she couldn't feel anything but the beating of her own heart in her chest. Reckless and wild, loose and crazy.

She could feel the burning sensation of his lower lip brushing against her's. Teasing, tempting, just enough to make Jemma pull him closer, looking for more.

Abruptly, Jemma was dizzy; it took her a moment to realise that he was distracting her as he injected a needle into her arm. She tried to shove him back, but the ground met her body immediately with a sickening impact, turning her world dark.

\-----

Peggy had not walked the streets of London since she'd returned to England. Nothing had changed in her absence; the streets were always damp, the air always carried the familiar hum of activity. It was the most at home she had felt in months. Her high heels clicked on the street as she rapidly made her way to a bus stop. She'd been directed to wait for the Homeless Network; the seemingly endless groups of homeless wanderers who were paid to get information that any known face could never collect.

 _They'll come to you_. Peggy didn't want to just stand around waiting, such was a waste of crucial time. She wondered if Fitz was alright by himself for a while. Sherlock provided very little guardianship for him.

After what felt like eternity but was in reality, ten minutes, Peggy was jolted as a passerby shoved into her. The smooth texture of paper was encased in her palm. Peggy unraveled it. Simply written in a scrawling print was _Sherrinford_. Peggy lifted her head to see whomever the note came from, but the Network was far too swift; like an invisible ocean current, they left their wake and vanished. Peggy folded the note, tucking it into her pocket.

"Sherrinford?" was her petition, loud and demanding, as she walked back into their flat. Sherlock, meditatively stroking one of their cats with his long fingers, looked up upon her arrival.

"I see that you were contacted." Utterly unfazed and unrevealing.

"What or whom is Sherrinford?" He knew, of course he knew. Peggy could tell. His apparent need to keep her in the dark irritated her beyond belief; her blouse began to feel constricting around her throat. Shoving the note against his chest, she undid her top button of her shirt. For the first time in weeks, she felt warm. "Bloody answer me, Mr. Holmes."

Was he amused by her agitation? She couldn't tell but highly suspected so; his blue eyes showed a hint amusement although the rest of his features remained cooly unaffected. He seemed to consider her a moment, unmoving except for the stray hand that was still doting on the cat. A long while slipped by before he cleared his throat. "Sherrinford is a prison." Simple. To the point.

Peggy wasn't satisfied. "Aren't you just a wealth of information today."

"It's a high security prison off the coast. For the clinically insane, usually."

"You said that the Network was trying to find Jemma," Peggy pressed on. She was getting more information whether he liked it or not; not as though anyone could resist Miss Carter for long. "What does Sherrinford have to do with her?"

"It's possible she was taken there. I doubt it, security is strict. They'd notice if she was being held hostage."

"I want to go."

"To Sherrinford?"

"It's my only lead on Jemma. I have to pursue it." It was more than obvious to Peggy and it seemed logical enough. Going to a prison for insane people did not rattle her, particularly when Jemma could be there. "Are you with me?"

The clock on the mantle place ticked away the seconds. Finally he said, "''Once more unto the breach'."

She tilted her head. "Hamlet?"

"Henry V."

"Clever."

\-----

"Lovely girl, isn't aren't you?"

Jemma stirred. Pulsing pain from where she'd been injected caused her to bring her arm up to her chest, as she rolled onto her side. The sickening sensation of being observed like an animal in a cage was what inevitably forced herself to open her eyes. Getting her bearings was impossible, she'd missed far too much while unconscious. All that registered was that the room was white. The realisation that she was laying on a floor quickly dawned on her foggy brain. Quickly thereafter followed the realisation that her head rested in a woman's lap. Fingers, cold and long, began caressing her hair. Too weak to pull away, she subjected herself to being touched by the woman. She did, however, open her eyes to get a look at her abductor.

She was not conventionally pretty. Perhaps she would be if she looked less ghastly and anaemic. She was young, Jemma placed her in her thirties. Long, knotted hair streamed over her stark white clothing. Her lips, dry and split, formed a slight smirk upon meeting Jemma's inquisitive stare. Her eyes were most interesting to Jemma. They reminded her of someone that she could not vividly recall. Their colour was indefinable; a mix of steely grey and raven black. Unearthly and unblinking. The woman's eyes made Jemma feel hollow and cold inside. She averted her eyes to the ceiling, focusing as hard as she could so as to replace the feeling of the woman's ashy skin.

"Where am I?" Jemma sounded unfamiliar to her own ears.

"A place for special people, like you and me." The voice echoed in Jemma's brain. Somewhere she had heard someone speak in a similar voice. There was something in her tone, her pronunciation of words. "You are far from normal, aren't you, love?"

"Where is Sebastian?"

"Your lover is somewhere. I haven't a clue. I'm bored with that subject, let's move on, shall we?" Her voice did not fluctuate for a beat. Her hands continued to twist in Jemma's brunette locks. "Do you have any better, more interesting questions?"

Jemma coughed slightly, her chest beginning to burn. Between her gasps, she managed to hear the woman inform her that it is a side effect of the injection. The coughing continued for a solid minute until Jemma gagged on her own saliva. Lying down made her situation worse. She rasped for air, gaining little comfort from the patting hand of her abductor. Jemma struggled to sit up, despite the vague dizziness, her chest heaving. The coughs silenced after achingly long minutes. Drying her pooling eyes with a rough motion, Jemma looked around herself.

A cell. It was a prison cell. Not a conventional kind. The walls were glass, more like an exhibit in a aquarium than an actual cell.

Jemma did have one more question, one that was sure to be better and far more interesting. Turning to face the woman and her unblinking stare, Jemma wanted to know, "What's your name?"

The woman smiled; it may have been mistaken as warm had her glare not been dead and emotionless. "My parents love funny words. They picked out the strangest names for me and my siblings. Quite eccentric, really. They told me stories about why the chose my name. My name derived from the Greek, it means The East Wind. ' _Winds in the east, theres a mist comin' in. Like somethin' is brewin' and 'bout to begin. Can't put me finger on what lies in store, but I feel what's to happen all happened before. A father, a mother, a daughter, a son, the threads of their lives unraveling undone_ '. Have you heard that song before? My brother always used to sing that to me when we were kids."

"You have a brother?" Jemma was more transfixed and curious than she'd care to admit. Perhaps it was the unwavering and haunting rhythm of Eurus' voice that caught Jemma's attention.

"Two. I believe you know the one very well." Eurus drew her bony knees to her chest before extending a pale hand to tuck a curl of Jemma's hair behind her ear. Goosebumps ran down Jemma's arms. It was like being touched by a shell, not an actual person.

"Maybe I should give you a hint so you don't hurt yourself. I'm Eurus, Eurus Holmes."

\-----

"I hope you know what you're getting yourselves into," Ana mused from the kitchen. Her reddish hair looked a bit thinner than normal, her complexion a touch more sallow. Before Peggy could inquire after her health, Ana perkily smiled. "I'll take care of Fitz while you're gone."

"This is a ridiculous idea," Jarvis interjected. "I have heard horror stories of the monsters that lurk in that prison. Supposedly they have cannibals there."

Peggy pulled on her jacket, hastily fastening only a few buttons. "We're not exactly going to make friends, my dear Jarvis. Unless you'd like me to bring one home for you."

Jarvis visibly cringed but silenced, to Peggy's relief. His objections, while considerate, were unnecessary. Ana moved closer to Peggy, her tone dropping into a confidential whisper. "Does Fitz know?"

"That his girlfriend is alive and we've been lying to him? No, he hasn't a clue."

Ana said nothing for a long moment, her eyes holding Peggy's gaze with complete seriousness. "You should tell Fitz the truth about Jemma."

"Tell me what about Jemma?"

There was no need to look; only one person had an accent that was so distinct. Exchanging a fleeting look with Sherlock across the room, Peggy placed her attention on the young man standing in the doorway. Ana and Jarvis seemed to shrink back at once, retreating into the kitchen and closing the door. Fitz wavered in the doorway, swaying like a trembling leaf on a windy day. He looked unwell, a ghostlike shadow of the person he used to be. Peggy opened her mouth but nothing came out. Betrayal is even worse to witness than to experience; Fitz was shattered, dangling on the edge of sanity, betrayed by two people who mattered the most to him. So many words threatened to spill over from Peggy but none began to flow. Over her shoulder, she felt the outline of Sherlock coming up to stand behind her.

Blankness began to fade on Fitz's face. "Where's Jemma?" He took a step forward, refusing to look away from Peggy. His chapped lips quivered, his hands dropped limply at his sides. He was lied to about death of the love of his life and Peggy knew there was no asking for forgiveness at this point.

"Fitz---"

" _Where is Jemma_?" Dangerous, cold, quiet. His tone was as hushed as a soft breeze but far, far colder.

"I don't know." Peggy impulsively replied. She deliberated on whether to divulge Sherrinford to him right now. He was the furthest thing from stable, physically or emotionally.

"Stop lying to me." His hand left his side sharply and she felt it crack across her face like a whip. Her vision blurred, involuntary tears filling her impacted eye, turning the room into a watercolour. She assumed it was Sherlock that quickly pulled her aside, cupping her burning cheek in his cold fingers.

" _Where the HELL is Jemma_?" A scream, almost animalistic emanated from Fitz's throat as he spat the words. His knees appeared to give out, he dropped on the floor, digging his hands into the carpet. Peggy tried to dry her eye which refused to stop watering. Her skin singed like fire from his hand; Fitz was stronger than he looked. Sherlock, with a startling amount of protectiveness, continued to hold his hand to the side of her face.

"She's a hostage." Peggy blindly turned her head in Fitz's direction. The watercolours began to turn reddish from blood. Pressing her jacket sleeve against her eye, she went on, "There is a placed called Sherrinford. We think she may have been taken there."

Fitz murmured Jemma's name several times over. The room became clearer gradually to Peggy; Sherlock was inches away, concern in his eyes. A few feet away, Fitz closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face.

"You had a right to know." Peggy did not know what else to say. Words would provide little consolation. Looking down, her sleeve was stained with rusty coloured spots of blood. She dimly was aware of Sherlock unbuttoning her jacket and pulling it off of herself, as he handed her a tissue. Her attention and vision focused on Fitz. "Please forgive us. We never thought you'd find out this way."

"I thought she was dead." He didn't sound intimidating anymore, neither dangerous nor vicious. Pathetic, truly pathetic. Lost and pitiful, with no sense of direction. "I wanted...to _die_." Fitz finally looked up at her, teeth clenched to keep from rattling from anger.

"I know." Sherlock spoke up which surprised Peggy. "We will find her and you will see her again."

Promises were nearly impossible to make in their world, where nothing was certain daily. Sherlock had told her once that promises are something only the weak make. Whether this promise was genuine or another lie, Peggy didn't know. She wasn't going to ask.

Peggy studied Fitz's desperate form, lying on the floor. "You're coming with us." A brief look over at Sherlock confirmed that. He nodded his consent.

"To Sherrinford?"

\-----

Sherrinford itself was enough to inspire fear in its captives. Dark and alone, in the centre of the sea, with no access except by air, it was a foreboding and evocative structure. Rain battered the shoreline, churned the ocean into frothy foam. Sherlock made a call, as he put it, giving them access to the confidential building. Peggy did not press further.

A man with short hair and a short temperament met them. He crossly looked at them before leading them up the stone steps to the prison. His German Shepard, however, seemed to take interest in Sherlock and vice versa. Occasionally Peggy heard Sherlock talk to the dog. Fitz hung close to Peggy, who held a dampened rag to her cheek. The right side of Peggy's face swelled and a blood vessel ruptured, giving her an unsightly red spot in the white of her eye. Having come to his senses, Fitz begged her for forgiveness over striking her. Peggy knew he was not in his right mind; she patted his arm and just said to him that they'd find Jemma.

The manager was a tall man with greyish hair and glazed over eyes. He lead them into the control room, entirely speechless. Something was off, something was wrong. Peggy shot a look over at Sherlock who was attentively studying the man.

The prison was quiet. The sound of her high heels clicking against the floor was the only noise in the hallway. It was unlike any other prison Peggy had ever been to; there were no cells or prisoners, to the visible eye. It was neither dank nor dark nor unclean. Glass and steel ran through every room they walked by, giving off an atmosphere of cold sterilisation. For some odd reason, the prison reminded Peggy of a shark; sleek, smooth and shifting.

Monitors lined the control room walls, about thirty in total. Peggy could see the prisoners in their white boxes that were their individual cells. Some were lying on the ground, some were sleeping, some were reading. One prisoner was drawing on the walls. A closer look revealed that it was complicated mathematics. It was not a prison for insanity, so much as it was for genius.

"Young man, will you come with me?" A guard standing by the wall suddenly stepped forward. He'd almost blended into the wall altogether. He reached out for Fitz's arm. Fitz looked between Peggy and Sherlock, uncertain.

"Do as the man says."

Fitz followed the guard out of the room. The manager turned to face Peggy and Sherlock, his expression still dead and emotionless. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Miss Peggy Carter." His hands were trembling. He turned his back to them briefly, rummaging for something in a drawer under a monitor. Peggy and Sherlock exchanged a look of equal confusion and concern. Their instincts were sharper than knives; a humming sense of connection coursed between them. Peggy's heartbeat quickened, mind beginning to work overtime to figure out what was out of place. She began to wonder where Fitz was being taken. Perhaps letting him go was not the best idea. She licked her lips, shifted her weight as she looked around the room. The silence was killing her. She could hear her own breathing which steadily crawled up her nerves.

 _The seconds before a storm are always the quietest_ , her mother once had told her when she was little. The words resurfaced in her mind with utter clarity. Peggy flicked her gaze between the monitors and Sherlock and waited, tense.

The drawer clicked shut. The manager slowly and arduously turned, pulling a gun out of the drawer, pinning it to his head in a swift motion.

"Welcome to the Final Problem."


	15. The Violin Case

The trigger to the gun was pulled. Blood showered on Peggy and Sherlock as the manager dropped on the floor, lifeless and freed from whatever prison his mind was in. Nausea curled in Peggy's stomach, her breath hitching. She fumbled with the door handle; locked, sealed. Covered in a strangers blood, Fitz taken to god knows where and trapped, panic began to pump through her veins. She couldn't breathe, the room was far too constricting. Oxygen drained from her lungs and she was unable to fill them again. Unsuccessfully, she tried to wipe away the blood with a shaking hand. Sherlock caught her wrists, drawing closer. Despite his taut grip, she could feel tremors running through in his hands.

"Peggy."

The use of her name caused her to freeze; it was always 'Miss Carter'. Peggy paused, inhaling deeply. Endeavouring to speak calmly but unable to speak with the steadiness she desired, she managed, "What's going on, where is Fitz?"

"The final problem..." was all Sherlock said. "End of the line." Letting go of her, he began to pace the cramped room. He could only make a few strides before turning around again.

"What are you talking about?"

"A few years ago," he replied, "I was told there would be a final problem for me. The end of everything. Moriarty told me that."

"You said he's dead, he blew his own brains out."

Doubt. It flickered on his stony features, like a swift flash. Doubt was not something that Peggy ever associated with Sherlock Holmes; every move he made was deliberate, every word. He was a man of utter self assuredness, on a solitary island in his mind and quite content there. Doubt was something that people who can be touched feel; not the untouchable man before her that could never be rattled. Not by people, not by words, not by death.

Peggy pressed on with little hesitation. The mystery that encircled Moriarty had followed them around like a shadow ever since they met. Whatever happened to him, whatever he did, Peggy wanted a resolved answer. The facts to be lined up before her so she could make a conclusive decision."What happened on the rooftop?"

He turned. His hands, cold but soft, rested upon her face. "Close your eyes."

"What are you doing?" Peggy didn't pull away; there was something reassuring about the pressure of his contact.

"I'm walking you through what happened. I'll pull moments from your subconscious and add a different reality," he shortly answered. "You have to focus entirely. Do you want to know or not?"

Obediently, she closed her eyes. What choice did she have? If she wanted answers, she'd have to put herself in separate place. Her own doubts began to filter in; it was strange, bloody strange. Everything in her life had been strange since she met him. Sherlock's voice rattled her, snapping at her to focus on his description and his alone. Peggy filled her lungs sharply with oxygen and centred herself. Relaxing her mind, pushing away the room. Painting a mental picture of the surroundings, her reality began to slip away into a far different world. A rooftop on a rainy afternoon, about ten feet away from Sherlock and Moriarty. She couldn't imagine Moriarty's face; she'd never actually seen what the man looked like before. His presence, however was felt by her. He was not unlike a snake; sly and smooth, always shifting around Sherlock, as if Sherlock were the centre of his universe and he orbited around him. She focused her mind on Sherlock...he looked so much younger. More naive. She could hear their conversations; it was something about angels. She couldn't make it out. Peggy turned her entire attention on this other Sherlock, the one standing inches apart from the man Peggy always presumed was the worst man on earth.

"If you want me to shake hands with you in hell, I shall not disappoint." Clear and vivid, as if they were real, the words carried over to Peggy from Sherlock.

Moriarty said something indiscernible. Having never heard his voice before, Peggy was lost. Movements, scattered and ridged, jolted them from place to place. As if there was a time skip, a tear in the fabric of events, she saw Sherlock hold him over the edge of the building. Cold, ruthless. Laughing echoed in her mind, laughter that would only come from one person who was thrilled to be threatened like that. The fabric tore again; Moriarty held Sherlock's hand in a tight handshake. He leaned his blurred face close to Sherlock's. An outside observer, in a mute state of motionlessness, she could not interfere as she watched Moriarty pull a gun out of his jacket and fire it in his mouth. Sherlock jolted back from the body; she could hear his ragged breathing, see his panic rising. Dark rivers of blood poured onto the rooftop from Moriarty's head, absorbing into the cracks of the concrete. Peggy forced herself to drag her focus down. Clear as day, she could see Moriarty's face as if she'd known it her whole life. His inky eyes stared up at the sky, a still smile creased his cold lips. He was not frightening looking; on the contrary. Had he not been dead, he'd have been attractive. His face, smug even in death, seemed to be looking right at her. Somehow, he was nothing that she ever imagined and everything she had ever feared. He was everything and nothing all at once. Strangled gasps emanated from Sherlock as he drew back. His breathing stilled as she watched him step on the edge of the rooftop. Anxiety rose in her throat. There was too much happening, it was too vivid, too real. She couldn't open her eyes, couldn't escape. This wasn't a hallucination, this wasn't guided imagery, this was a nightmare from the depths of hell and she couldn't wake up.

"Peggy!"

The ceiling was the first thing she saw. Pure relief washed over her followed by horror. It all was more than she bargained for, more than she ever wanted to know about. She struggled to her feet, pushing Sherlock away, who tried to help her. "What was that?"

"You wanted to know what happened." He looked as if he'd seen hell himself. Scars were reflected in his eyes; to bring her there, he himself had to relive the moment of his past. "Well, that's what happened."

Steadying herself, Peggy got her bearings in reality. "But how did you..."

"Take you there? I told you." He gestured vaguely. "You had been on the rooftop before, you know me. I just verbally expanded on your already established memories. The Method of Loci."

"I saw him though. I've never seen him before but I suddenly did."

"Your brain just filled in a blank," Sherlock passively replied. His answer did not silence her qualms but having had returned to the sane and present world, her breathing steadied and so did her mind. Five years of training with S.H.I.E.L.D taught her how to recover quickly from shock. Later, when she was home alone and by herself, she'd let herself be overcome by the horror. It was to crucial to stay present and intent in that moment.

A static hum pierced the air, quickly followed by the grainy image of a young woman with long brown hair and grey eyes. Her face covered all of the monitors, replacing the images of the cells. The natural reaction was to freeze; Peggy was transfixed at once. The woman seemed to stare right at her, as if the monitor were a nonexistent force.

"Welcome to the final problem. Are you both quite ready?"

\----

Her back was turned to him when the guard lead Fitz into Eurus' cell. Too afraid to give indication of his presence, he mutely watched her long hair ripple down her back as she turned to face him. She did not speak either. Creeping her way over to the glass with silent steps, she studied him. The guard vanished, shutting the door, trapping him in there. Fitz shifted his weight, brushed a hand through his hair. Eurus mirrored his movements, her lips tilting upwards ever so slightly. Even with the glass partition, she made him nervous, rightly so.

Finally she spoke, her voice tinny from the speaker. "Come closer. You mustn't pay attention to the 'keep three feet away from glass' sign."

He obeyed. Getting on her nerves would no doubt be a grave mistake to make. He drew a few steps closer. She nodded. "Keep going," she persisted over and over, until the glass was the only thing keeping them from touching. He finally lifted his head to meet her unfeeling glare. Something about the arch of her cheekbones, the shape of her smile...Fitz knew her from somewhere, some place.

"I was blonde when you saw me," Eurus murmured through the glass. Her stare struck a chord deep inside Fitz. He dipped his head and she traced his movements with her's. "Leo Fitz, remember me?"

"I don't know you..."

"Don't keep lying to yourself, pretty boy." She was pressing her thin body closer to the glass, drawing him in. Had there been no partition, she'd have been on top of him. "Remember those five minutes after Miss Carter left this morning? Five minutes..."

"I don't remember you." More desperate. He turned his head away but she yanked his attention back on her when she pounded her fist on the glass.

"Simmons."

Flat. Cold. Calculated. Manipulative. The words were a soft hush on Eurus' tongue.

"Faith?" Confusion clouded his thinking. "You're Faith."

"I'm Eurus. Faith was a good cover name though, wasn't it? You fell for it. The weak minded always do."

"You made me hit my friend." Dawning on his mind like the first ray of light splintering a night sky, horror flooded Fitz. the blankness of that moment filled his mind; he remembered walking in with the intention of attacking her but the actual impact was vacant from his memory. A fracture in his memory, a gap. Faith...she'd come into his flat after Peggy left. Said she was a friend of Peggy's and was going to wait until she returned. She'd begun talking and with each sentence, made Fitz forget what his own mind even was. He didn't remember her leave, he barely could recall her words.

"You apologised I'm sure. Did you tell Miss Carter that you don't remember hitting her?"

"I...hadn't wanted to upset her further."

"Did you cry afterwards? I hear that crying is something that people do."

"I don't remember."

"You have a rubbish memory." Eurus rested her hands on the glass and Fitz shivered as if she were touching him. He wanted to move away but he was locked up, incapable of movement, and Eurus had the key.

"Simmons," she said again, smooth and silky. "Finding a trigger word for you was easy. Screwing your whole brain up in five minutes was easy. Getting you to do things against your will...easy. You are so easy, Leo Fitz. Come on, pretty boy. Look me in the face."

His brain told him to look down, to keep focused on the floor. Ignore her. She was just trying to play mind games. Her ashy finger traced the glass, half an inch from his face. ''Look at me," she coaxed. Soft and sweet, innocent and pure.

With a sick feeling, he lifted his eyes. Her grey eyes flickered their long lashes, pulling him in, inviting him to get sucked into her game. The room wasn't there any more in for Fitz, it was just her. The woman with the key.

"Simmons."

\-----

The directions were clear and simple; the woman on the monitors wanted to talk to them in person. She told them where to find her and if they wanted to solve the puzzle, finish the game, they had to come down to her. Peggy thought it was a ridiculous idea; the woman was insane. Sherlock, however, was curious. Too curious for his own good, Peggy felt. She'd have fought harder to keep them from going if she had more strength. Weakness and exhaustion limited her every move, including her persuasiveness in making him stay. she only got so far before giving up. Had her senses not been so heightened, she would have been still paranoid if she was in reality or not. What happened, the utter mind game, was etched into her like a scar that wouldn't heal.

Eurus was cross legged on the floor of her cell, her eyes screwed shut. Almost a meditative and distant look was on her face, replacing the typical empty void of expressionlessness. Her face struck Peggy as a mirror to someone else she knew. The same features, the same presence.

Sherlock did not blink upon seeing her. "What makes you worthy of my time?"

Eurus stood up, head tilting to the left. "You don't remember me? I honestly expected more from you. You always were my favourite."

"Tell us who you are," Peggy interjected, wasting no time. Not with Jemma and Fitz's lives on the line. If she were a lesser human, she'd have been petrified of the woman separated only by a thin sheet of glass.

"Winds in the east, theres a mist comin' in. Like somethin' is brewin' and 'bout to begin. Can't put me finger on what lies in store, but I feel what's to happen all happened before. A father, a mother, a daughter, a son, the threads of their lives unraveling undone'" Eurus crept up to the edge of her cell, not breaking eye contact with Sherlock. The way she moved was predatory, right down to the roll of her shoulders."When I was little. I could never fall asleep at night. You'd sit next to me in bed and pet my hair while singing it until I fell asleep."

His expression shifted dramatically; from cool aloofness to stark recognition. Eurus parted her lips, arched her head to the side, before clapping her gaze onto Peggy. Direct, powerful. Every inch of Peggy was an open book to Eurus, every word of her past on display. Eurus smiled; any person could see that was mentally reading every single page several times over. There was no glass, no steel enforcements, no concrete walls that could put a limit to Eurus' mental capabilities. A tingle, unstoppable now, ran down Peggy's spine, radiating down her arms and legs. She was not shaken so much as she was left with a vaguely disturbing feeling deep inside of herself. Tension coalesced under Peggy's skin. She was the one who broke the eye contact. Eurus moved on quickly, leaning against the thin glass to get a better look at her brother. The two of them stared at each other like primal creatures, equally transfixed, equally entrapped in a world of untouchable communication.

"Eurus."

"Hello, brother dear."

Time ticked by. They continued to say nothing more. Peggy would never understand the screwed up cacophony that was the Holmes family; not even the Holmes' themselves could. She watched them both, a quiet and respectful observer. Not fearful; not yet. After what she deemed was an appropriate amount of time for the two to stare speechless, she took a step closer.

"Eurus," Peggy advanced, rolling her name off of her tongue, "Where is my friend Fitz? Surely, you know."

Eurus cracked her stony facade with a insincere smile. "Fitz is a very weak minded young man. He's far too obsessed with that girl he loves for his own good. She'll be the death of him one day." Eurus turned from the glass and paced back several steps, taking a seat on her bed. She cocked her head at Peggy before looking back over at her silent brother. "Are you two in a physical relationship?"

"Don't change the subject, Eurus. Where is he?" Finally Sherlock spoke up.

Her breath left her lungs in a sigh. "Don't be monotonous." A shift of her eyes, a crossing of her legs. Clamping her hands on her knees, her eyes flickered over to Peggy again. "Miss Carter, open the glass partition. There is a button on the wall to your right. Press it."

"You're crazy, I'm not doing that." Peggy half-laughed in disbelief and disgust.

Eurus stared at her so hard, for so long, Peggy was sure that the glass would begin to fracture on its own. "I'll kill Jemma if you don't hit the button." There was not a hint of trepidation or hesitation in her voice. Her mind was too advanced, too multilayered to concoct lies. Not when she could twist the truth to be far more intimidating. When she spoke, Peggy believed her at once, without even having to deliberate on the subject. Wherever Jemma was, this woman, this creature, would not hesitate to do something to her. It was her brute force of honesty that made her a more petrifying opponent than most. Peggy did not look to Sherlock for consent; she walked over to the wall and hit the button at once. There are times to gamble and push limits, and there are times to obey and listen.

Eurus stood up. Peggy seemed to be the highlight of Eurus' interest. "I want to touch you."

"I'm sorry, what?" Peggy knew that her look of bewilderment was more than obvious; she made no move to mask it. Peggy looked over at Sherlock for an explanation of sorts but received nothing but a look of numb detachment.

"I want to touch you," Eurus repeated. "Come closer."

Walking over to Eurus felt like both eternity and less than a second at the same time. Peggy positioned herself directly in front of her. Standing so close made her notice that she was an inch taller than Eurus. Eurus arched her head upwards slightly so as to make eye contact. She seemed to thrive off of it, thrive off of pushing people over edges.

Refusing to cringe was one of the most difficult things Peggy could do; Eurus' hands were long and bony like her brothers, but there was a quality about her's that was physically repelling. Eurus' digits traced her inflamed cheek. The urge to grasp her wrists and break all ten fingers was overwhelming. Peggy inhaled slowly, enduring the torment as best she could manage with stoicism. Out of her peripheral vision, she felt the heat of his stare, watching them, monitoring them.

"Fitz hit you hard. He's very obedient."

Peggy said nothing for a second, letting her mind piece together the situation. Blanks could be filled in later but the bare structure of what happened was definable enough. Somehow, Eurus knew that Fitz hit her and somehow, that made him obedient. If Eurus was anything like her brother, Peggy had no doubt that she could manipulate the human psyche. The woman wasn't insane at all; she was quite sane, quite balanced. She was not a rogue psychopath, she was a careful manipulator who soared above the rest of them all with her brilliance.

"Where did you put him?" A sinking sensation settled in Peggy, heavy and intense.

Eurus was taking her time, revelling in the attention. To Peggy's disgust, Eurus took in her discomfort with pleasure. Her finger paused on Peggy's lipstick-covered red lips, before dragging her searching finger back down Peggy's swollen jawline. "He's with Jemma, of course."

\----

Jemma's throbbing neck was what eventually awakened her. Touching her forehead, Jemma saw drops of blood on her hand. Eurus, with her careful and accurate calculations, knew just how hard to hit her. Enough to incapacitate for a long time, not enough to kill.

Darkness enveloped her surroundings, gradually inducing alertness in her dazed state. Sitting up, Jemma heard floorboards creak. Wood, cold and prehistoric, dug splinters into her feet as she stood up, pressing her hands against the wall. Flicking a rusty switch, light flickered as it flooded from a dusty lightbulb in the centre of the ceiling.

The dirt on her clothes that Jemma noticed when she opened her eyes, was not from dust, rather it was from ashes. Catching her breath, leaning against the wall to support her tired frame, Jemma looked around. Ashes and the unsteady skeleton of a bedroom remained in the wake of an apparent fire. The cheerful wallpaper was ripped and burned to shreds, the plush toy animals were battered and singed carcasses. In another lifetime, in another world, maybe this room had been a cosy children's bedroom. In the far colder reality, it was the shattered illusion of a child's oblivious peace.

Her heart leapt into her throat at a startling speed when she heard the sounds of someone walking. It was the weight and pace of a man's footsteps, headed down the hallway and towards her. So, so close to freedom, Jemma was not going to take chances on who the stranger was. Jemma did the only thing her logical and scientific mind could think of; she opened the closet door and slipped inside. Cramped and dark, Jemma felt something furry brush against her. Had she not been trained to hold her tongue in situations like this, she could have screamed. Closing her eyes, willing whomever it was to leave, Jemma dug her fingernails into her palms.

"Jemma?"

Instinctually, Jemma heaved a sigh of relief. "Fitz, thank god it's you." She flung the door open, rushing over towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck. Inhaling the soft, clean scent of that was so familiar to her, Jemma's pulse slowed and the blurred, desperate thoughts vanished into her typical sense of balance. Regaining her fully conscious state, she slowly realised that she did not feel the reassuring reciprocation of his embrace. His muscles were ridged, tense. Jemma took a step back, looking Fitz in the eyes. He blankly stared back, the dark and soulful pools of his eyes were dry and flat. "Fitz, what's wrong?"

Childlike, his voice was low and tremulous. "There's an East Wind coming, Jemma. It's coming to get you."

\-----

What was it all for? That question hung in Peggy's mind as she watched Eurus withdraw a violin from its case. Sherlock played violin too; Peggy heard him play it when he was in his quiet spells. She had no sooner taken residence when she first discovered his ability. She had stood in the doorway and listened while he played on, oblivious to her presence. It had been a somber, slow piece that still hooked in Peggy's mind on repeat when she was upset. Imprinted in her memory, painted into her subconscious. Every once in a while, she found herself humming one of his pieces.

Eurus began to play. It was was a smooth piece, flowing from note to note yet it did not give the listeners pleasure to hear. It was sour, it was bitter, it was fast paced and most of all, it was devastating. Unlike her brother's softer edge, Eurus was powerful, unfeeling. With every movement of her bow, Peggy's discomfort rose. A tight feeling gathered between Peggy's shoulder blades until it ached. Her feet stumbled slightly as she drew out of Eurus' cell, returning to her companion's side.

The music took a sudden shift. Notes scattered like a shards of glass, equally painful and slovenly. It metronomically shifted, swinging into a pattern that only Eurus could follow. With each draw of her bow, Peggy began to understand what the cacophony of notes were.

Blood. It was blood.

Eurus was bleeding through her violin, whatever agony her mind was in was pouring out through whatever this was. It wasn't a song, it never had been. It was a story, a warning. Only Eurus knew the code and exactly what it meant. No one else understood, no one else could crack into her hidden message. After putting every string to the test with her vicious musical monologue, Eurus set it down.

"Do you like it?" She inquired of Peggy and Peggy alone. "I call it The East Wind."

Sherlock took a step closer to Eurus and she snapped in his direction at once. "Eurus, tell me what the final problem is. You're procrastinating. Tell me now." It was a command, an order. No one in their sane mind would try to resist him. Sherlock Holmes was a terrifying man when he wanted to be. On the constant tipping point of sanity and insanity.

A beat. She considered him a moment before rolling her eyes, a hushed sigh leaving her lips. She began to speak slowly, testing every word on her tongue, pushing the sounds around in her mouth. "Haven't you figured it out yet? Haven't you guessed?"

"Figured out what?" To anyone else, Sherlock would have sounded calm. To someone who knew him, they could hear the repression of emotions in his voice. Eurus was crawling on every last one of his nerves, pushing him until he cracked and she enjoyed it. Eurus turned her attention to the clock on the wall. She was procrastinating, buying her time. Finally, Eurus just laughed. If you could call it a laugh. Chilling and bitter, it replicated the sound of a wailing animal.

"Tick tock, brother dear."

There was no glass to keep her from approaching Sherlock. He tilted his head and she mirrored his action. Testing him. Time for whatever was about to happen was running out. Eurus encircled her brother, mimicking the moment with Moriarty that Peggy saw in her hallucinatory state. She orbited around him, just as Moriarty had, almost brushing against him but keeping a teasing distance. Stopping, bringing her face near his, she smiled.

"It's time for a new game."

 


	16. The Oriens Case

Had Jemma been a person of a more nervous disposition, she'd have shrunk away from Fitz. Her scientific, organised and inquisitive mind overcame any traces of fear. The burning need to solve the puzzle, uncover the mystery of his behaviour ticked away at her brain. It was science, not sentiment, that moved her to say, "Fitz, what on earth are you talking about?"

"The East Wind. It's coming."

"I don't know what the East Wind is," Jemma carefully replied, picking her words with care. "Can you explain?"

Fitz shifted around, breaking away from her grasp. Jemma followed him as he approached the wall, covered in a child's drawings. The fire had burned most of the photographs, only a few remained in tact. Fitz stared at them intently, unmoving until he lifted his finger to point at a specific one. Jemma took a step forward for a closer look.

 _East Wind._ It was written in a child's hand, scrawling and uneven. The picture, sketched messily in crayon, showed a house with rough orange marks replicating fire, extending out. Jemma was disturbed, rightly so. It was too coincidental for the very house in which she stood to be the remains from a fire. Her stomach twisted and so did her hands. "Fitz, let's go."

"She wants us to stay here. That's what she said."

"Who said?"

"Eurus. The East Wind."

\-----

Pain, smooth and rapidly coursing, flooded Peggy's temples. Her fingers twitched, absorbing the sensation of soft material of a blanket underneath her. Peggy didn't know how much time had passed since Eurus, with deadly and swift accuracy, had clapped her fists on Peggy's head, knocking her out instantly. Laying still, waiting for the pain to cease, she wondered how she had not seen that coming.

"Good, you're alive."

Peggy sat up, ignoring the surge of pain. Her vision doubled briefly, before focusing on Sherlock. Sitting on the floor, complacently, he looked thoughtful but calm. How he adapted to every situation with such chameleon-like quickness, she'd never know. "Of course I'm alive. What did I miss?"

"Eurus is surprisingly lethal," he replied simply. "She knocked us out and locked us in her cell. I don't know where she went. She'll be back, though."

Peggy stared a moment, watching him think. His features, still and serene, would not fail to hold her attention. Whatever he was thinking, wherever he was in his mind, she wanted to know. Being left in the dark was never something that she enjoyed, even if it was for her own protection. How much better it was to have facts and figures lined up than to be caught in blissful ignorance. "How did you not remember her? She's your bloody sister."

"I don't remember a lot of things clearly when I was younger. Memory repression, it's called." He paused, his breath hitching. His eyes shifted into a more distant look. They were in Eurus' cell, he was with Peggy but in his mind, they were far, far away and he was alone. Peggy could see it clearly; there was no way to connect with him, no way to pull him back to Earth. The isolated look on his face resonated deeply inside of herself, leaving her both desperate and yearning to be let in.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed to get up, she crossed the cell to kneel in front of him. "Sherlock, tell me what happened."

Completely still, she waited. Waited for a reaction. Waited for an explanation for the utter torture that they'd been enduring together. If he saw her, he gave no indication. He wasn't listening to her, wasn't paying attention. She got nothing and the hollow feeling of nothingness began to crawl on her nerves. Her muscles ached from remaining so sedentary, words threatened to force themselves out of her mouth. Exasperated words that would give away just how much she was feeling. She didn't want that. She didn't want him to know how much she cared. How sickened she was by the way people treated him or how much she worried. If he was going to be stony and silent, not respond to her gentle advances for connection, she would cool off too. He didn't deserve her kindness, never would. _Sherlock is not the type of man who deserves anyone_ , Peggy mused, her focus not leaving his statue-like expression of thoughtfulness. He never wanted to be deserved, there was too much attachment there. Emotions were complicated, Peggy was acutely aware of this. _Hell, why am I even trying to reach out to him. He doesn't care_. Giving up, she began to rise to her feet.

"You're wrong."

"First you ignore me, now you insult me?" Peggy snapped. Anger, hot and fast, ran under her skin, bubbling onto the surface. Standing over him, authoritative and demanding to be seen, the fragments of her stony facade crumbled into a million pieces. She wanted to push back, wanted to snap and shove herself into his small window of attention. Few people got to be noticed by him and for some reason she couldn't explain, like an urge that could not be pushed aside, she wanted to be noticed. He may not deserve her, but she deserved his small attention span. When she spoke, she wanted him to listen. When she asked a question, she wanted an answer. For inexplicable reasons, ones that she'd never fully understand, she was drawn to him. The same way she was drawn to mystery and danger. Equally self destructive and equally demanding to be heard. It angered her to an extent, to know that she needed him because she needed, craved, that danger so much. The danger that only he provided.

"You're wrong. I do care."

She paused, chest rising and falling rapidly, more out of reflex than reaction. He said nothing further and didn't have to. Anything further would have taken away from the simplicity of it all. Peggy's anger, like a wave, crashed and subdued. The burning feeling of anger simmered down into a low hum. It would not flash up against him in such away again, there was no need for it to. With five words, the assurance of her place was solidified enough for her to be satisfied. He cared, despite what he acted contrary, and his loyalty, once established, would not tarnish. Peggy didn't waver, didn't give in to the whims of the pathetic to say anything in reply. She did, however, soften her tone as she repeated, "Tell me what happened."

Intelligent man that he was, this time he listened to Peggy and answered. "Memory repression and replacement. She went away when I was very young. My parents and brother wanted me to forget her existence. Eurus became stories, not a person. A phrase, to be specific. The East Wind. I was incredibly naïve as a child."

The idea of the man in front of Peggy once being naïve was perplexing. This was the same person that Eurus claimed had stroked her hair until she fell asleep. His internal balance of stoicism and the softer emotions was something that had taken Peggy months to understand. As she stood there, staring at him on the floor, with a tired, dazed look in his eyes, Peggy came to the fruition that his balance was merely a facade from years and years of manipulation. Perhaps, somewhere, there was a human beneath the steel and sharp edges.

"You both done having your moment?" The television monitor on the wall crackled briefly before Eurus' peaked features appeared on the screen. It was impossible to identify where she was, but Peggy suspected she was somewhere in the prison still. Eurus leaned back in what she assumed was a chair, and flashed a smile in her brother's direction. "How are you both doing?"

"Where is Fitz and Jemma?" Peggy approached the monitor. Seeing Eurus' face inspired something similar to apathy inside of herself. No, it was more than apathy. If she was apathetic to Eurus' existence, she would have ignored her, been untouched and not rattled. Staring at the blank face on the screen, Peggy realised that an emotion far more akin to hatred manifested itself in herself. The blood drained from her cheeks and lips, leaving her feeling vaguely lightheaded. The break was over, Eurus was more than ready to unleash hell. She could see it in Eurus' eyes; like her brother, they were reflective of how she felt. There was no touch of mercy, just the gaze of a woman who wanted to turn the world upside down.

"He's fine, don't worry. You might want to worry about Jemma though, I gave Fitz very specific instructions on what to do to her." Eurus looked bored. Bouncing between intense focus and restless agitation, it reminded Peggy of Sherlock to a sickening point.

To show a tendril of emotion, to give away even a scrap of how she really felt would be a fatal mistake. Peggy opted for cold aloofness. She felt Sherlock standing behind her, towering despite her high heels. Peggy squared her shoulders, the familiar hum of adrenaline beginning to flood her veins. She was an agent, always had been and always would be. Disassociating emotion from action, Peggy took a half step closer to Eurus. Eurus' focus was on Sherlock but out of her peripheral vision, she was tracking Peggy.

"So how do you do it? Make someone do something against their will?" Peggy could not suppress the sharpness in her tone.

Eurus settled back, studying Peggy. She was in no rush and why would she want to? The person with the key is the one with all the power. No one could make Eurus do anything she didn't want to do. "The human psyche is like a fluid. It can fit and form into any container, it can be evaporated or frozen. The fluid has no control of what's happening to it, it just has to adapt. Someone else can control everything that it does and what happens to it."

"And that's what Fitz is to you? Just a lab rat?"

"No that's what Moriarty was to me."

Peggy didn't have to turn in order to feel Sherlock stiffen.

"That's for another time though," Eurus continued placidly. She was unfazed, the epitome of causal condescension. She didn't want them too interested; just enough to hold their attention, not enough to trigger an obsessive and desperate response. They were no good to her if they were just going to be a bundle of rattled stress. "I have something more interesting to talk about and I think you may want to pay attention, Peggy. Isn't that right, Dorothy?"

Peggy was past the point of a large reaction but her blood ran cold and her skin crawled as the familiar face of Dorothy Underwood sat down next to Eurus.

"Hey Pegs, it's been a while."

\-----

On her hands and knees, the water began to creep up her forearms, cold and dark. The bottom of the well was obscured from view; Jemma felt nothing but the sharp rocks under her hands. Almost enveloped entirely by darkness, panic began to rise, not unlike the surrounding water. The last rays of twilight slipped behind the gathering rain clouds.

 _Fitz. How could be have done this to me?_ Jemma entrusted that his mind was compromised in some way but that did not rid the pit of dread inside her stomach. He'd said he had to show her something and Jemma had followed him away from the charred house and out into the backyard next to the well. Suddenly, with far more power than Jemma could push against, he had held her over the edge. She had aggressively hit him, tried to shove him away, but he hadn't wavered, gripping her hair so tightly in his hands that she had felt her brunette locks ripping out. To be forced to look into his dead eyes before he pushed her down was by far more horrifying than any other torture she'd endured. No bullet, no electric chair, no poison could crush and kill Jemma more than the pain of looking into Fitz's eyes and him not flinching with recognition.

She wondered where he'd gone, what he was going to do next. He'd vanished the moment she was disposed of in the well. Jemma rolled back onto her knees, immediately overcome by splitting pains in her knees. Her hands impacted the stone floor as she fell forward, something sharp piercing her palm. For a fleeting second, Jemma was glad that there was no light, so she wouldn't have to see the murky water turn red with her blood. Clutching her wounded hand against her chest, she felt along the floor with her free hand. The protruding object came back into touch; it was loose, merely resting on the floor. Jemma lifted it up, holding the dripping object into the diminishing splinters of light.

A skull.

The immediate reaction was to drop it. It hit the water with a resounding splash. Jemma's jeans absorbed the rising water quickly, cold and clinging to her aching legs. Trying to pull herself up by grasping the damp rocks that lined the walls, Jemma quickly came to understand that she was unable to stand and collapsed. The minimal pain she thought she felt was not from the lack of injury, but rather the extent of it. Dropping the skull, Jemma also realised, was not from reaction, so much as it was from her body viciously shaking from shock. Her medical mind broke down the situation rapidly; she was in shock from what she assumed was broken legs. Untreated shock, in addition to water below freezing and rising at a rate of what she presumed was an inch a second...It was a quick realisation but it was not a surprising one.

Jemma lifted her head, eyes straining to see the top of the well. Fitz was gone, Peggy and Sherlock didn't know where she was. Not even Sebastian, who always seemed to keep her from dying, would come for her now.

From her sitting position, water enveloped across the top of her thighs with anxiety inducing swiftness. The pain was splitting, pulsing, radiating up and down her legs. Jemma took a deep breath to ward off the shock but her body rebelled as she choked back a gag.

_There is no one coming for me._

\-----

Sherlock would not and could not put a stop to Eurus. After all, she was nothing more than a phrase that had rattled around in that head of his for all these years. She was an idea, a string of sentences thrown together. A hidden thought that was banished whenever it threatened to resurface. He was powerless to her brain and whatever it was going to concoct. He was not an intellectual equal; she flew above him, miles and miles higher. Looking over at him, Peggy knew why.

Eurus had no heart and Sherlock did, which would prove to be his weakness until his last day. 

It always would be. No matter how calculating he tried to be, he'd always succumb to a measure of the softer emotions. No matter how many times he denied it, Sherlock had a heart, one that lived deeply embedded in his moral conscience. Eurus had no understanding of what having a heart was like. She did not know what a gentle touch felt like, a fond glance, a kind word. She did not know what pain was, what it was like to feel, what it was like to break down. Perhaps that's why she smiled, cat-like and collected, from behind the monitor while Sherlock stood, a cold facade with his hands trembling behind his back.

This observation stood out to Peggy and it always would. She'd always assumed Sherlock was a bit of a machine and to a degree, he was. Seeing him mirrored with someone that did merit the haunting personality of a machine, Peggy began to see how incredibly human he was. Swallowing, an aching throb settled into her heart, one that she could quite shake off. She never told him about her observation; it was something she'd rather keep to herself.

"Deep waters," Eurus remarked, idly. Nothing dramatic, just her high and distant vibrato. She sat forward slightly, peering attentively at Peggy. "You've been in deep waters all your life, Peggy."

"Clarify," Peggy flatly ordered.

"First you should check in on Jemma. Want to call her?"

\-----

It was almost entirely dark; the darkness weighed heavily on her small shoulders, almost as dense and heavy as the water. The water lapped like cold wet hands as it tugged at her shirt, creeping up her abdomen. The icy water provided a sort of soothing comfort to her excruciating pain in here legs. The blood flowing freely from wounded hand left her lightheaded. It was agonising, waiting for the water to eventually just rise above her head. To have to sit in the darkness and _wait_ caused the threat of tears which she refused to let fall. She was too proud, really, to let herself cry over the situation. To cry would be to admit defeat.

A ringing sound filled the well, bouncing off the walls and startling her out of her daze. Using her injured hand, she felt around her jacket until she located the source in her overcoat. It wasn't her phone; it was old, a flip phone. She hadn't seen one in years, it was something of a relic. Not wondering how it got in there and more obsessed with the possibility of human contact, she flipped it open to receive the call.

"Jemma, are you okay?" Peggy's voice, agitated and sharp, echoed in her ear. Tears of relief sprung back into Jemma's eyes, her accelerated pulse slowing down. If Peggy was there, Jemma entrusted that she'd be okay.

"I'm...I think I'm in a well." Jemma knew how particular that sounded and her knowledge was proved correct by the slight change in Peggy's gait of breath over the phone. "It's a long story. I need you to find Fitz. He's gone and I don't know what he'll do next."

"We're helping you first. Fitz is a grown man, he'll be fine." Sherlock's no-nonsense voice broke through.

"No, you have to help him. He's out of control---" A pain, hot and fast, rippled down her legs, omitting a gasp from Jemma. Dizzy, she tried to refocus on the phone. "Please help him."

She could practically feel them exchanging a look. "Fine," Peggy said and she made no move to suppress her resignation. "We will help him but after we help you. Tell us what happened."

"I woke up at this...house I suppose. It was more like a mansion, really. I was in a child's room, but everything was burnt, like there was a fire or something a long time ago. It was quite creepy." Jemma was rambling, she couldn't think or process straight. Her mind was turning into a watercolour of blurred and smudged thoughts that ran freely into each other. "Also I think there were mice..."

Jemma heard Peggy's low voice whisper to Sherlock, "She's in shock, she's not going to be making any sense."

"I'm not in shock," Jemma sharply denied. "And I'm worried about my boyfriend."

"Was there anything else you saw," Sherlock cut in, patient but urgent. "Try to think."

"Yes," Jemma slowly replied, the fragments of memories working back into a total picture. "I stood next to Fitz for a while, he'd pointed at a drawing on the wall. There were a lot of drawings...There wasn't any signatures, just the one that said East Wind..."

"I know where she is."

\------

"Why is she letting us go?"

Peggy's voice, apprehensive and tight, gave away only a shred of her anxiety. Eurus wanted them to go help Jemma. She'd aided in their leaving of Sherrinford in the first place, encouraged it. Dottie seemed equally agreeable. It was a kind gesture without the sentiment; it was empty and meaningless. Confusing, really.

A trap, no doubt.

Eurus was clever. She never made a move unless it was carefully thought out and dwelt upon. Like in chess when your opponent spends hours making a choice, Eurus refused to say or do anything unless she knew it's following actions. Eurus was a steady ten steps ahead of every single person around her which would have been interesting to Peggy, had the stakes for Jemma's survival not been so high.

"She's using Jemma as a way to get us there," Sherlock explained finally. Peggy nodded; she suspected as much. Jemma was just a pawn to Eurus, an unnecessary piece but one that could still be used to advance others.

 _The King and Queen of the board_ , Peggy thought, resting her forehead on the glass window. _The most important pieces and the easiest to capture_. The ocean was dark beneath the helicopter, only an occasional pale crest of a wave showing itself. Her breath fogged the glass, obscuring the view. If her heart rate had slowed down, she would have been exhausted. Every nerve in her body refused to be relaxed by the hum of the propellers or the knowledge that Sherrinford was disappearing into the horizon. She was awake, wide awake, and on edge. The ocean reminded her of what Eurus had remarked; all Peggy's life she'd been in deep waters. Looking at the pitch black water below, it struck a chord inside of Peggy.

Eurus was insane but she was never wrong.

Deep waters had encircled Peggy in every turn and for some reason that she could not place, she felt as though the waters she waded through were far deeper and darker than even she was aware of.

It was a Peggy's phone that aroused her out of her thoughts. The irritatingly cheerful ringtone was so contrary to their situation, that Peggy would have laughed if she wasn't so pissed off. Eurus' voice greeted her.

"You didn't think you'd just totally get away, did you?"

Peggy mouthed to Sherlock _It's your sister_ before saying into the phone, "How did you get my number, Eurus?"

"Please." Eurus sounded personally offended. "I'm an era defining genius, you honestly believe that I don't have ways to get your number?"

"Well argued." Peggy replied with a mixture of sarcasm and the general urge to throttle her. "What do you want now?"

"The game isn't over yet," Eurus replied. Peggy could envision her sitting with the phone, calm and docile, playing with her stringy hair, patronisingly amused by the situation. "Send the Yard to get Jemma once you get there, don't go yourselves. I do suggest, however, that Sherlock goes to the graveyard. He'll know what I mean."

With a click, their conversation disconnected. An uncontrollable chill ran down Peggy's arms. She hated how much Eurus managed to rattle her. Eurus spoke and looked at Peggy as if she knew her for years and it disillusioned Peggy beyond belief. She tucked her phone deeply into her jacket pocket. "Eurus said we should go to a graveyard and that you knew which one," she shortly said.

Sherlock studied her a moment and Peggy evenly stared back. The darkness of the night pressed into the helicopter, making it nearly impossible to see him clearly. His perfectly still and meditative features were unshakable. Peggy shifted after a beat. "Surely you must have some opinion on this."

"I doubt that it would settle well with you, Miss Carter."

The cold civility returned as if their conversation hours earlier had never taken place. "Well I still want to know."

A hesitation. "Your friend Dorothy is out for blood but Eurus isn't. She isn't looking for domination, or murder, or revenge...." He trailed off, disappearing back into his clouds of thoughts.

"Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"Is it possible that you are being sentimental or making allowances because she is your sister?" The question was blunt and to the point. Peggy exercised no reservedness.

"You doubt my inability to separate work from family." He was mild.

"Damn you, Sherlock, you are flesh and blood. She is your sister and I know you care about her. Family has always mattered to you, despite what you say otherwise." Her cheeks flushed warm, the swell of indignation growing stronger inside of herself. She fought it down.

She could not see his face but she heard the shift in his tone. "Why should I care about her?"

Peggy was at a loss for words a moment. Her throat was dry and she swallowed forcibly. "I don't know why I presumed that," she finally said. "I suppose for a moment I thought you were human. How wrong I was."


	17. The Context Case

The water pushed at Jemma's waist, rising inch by inch. Numbness prickled her legs and she couldn't tell if it was because of the pain or the icy water. She started to think about that skull at the bottom of the well and quickly opted not to.

She'd tried to dial for the Yard but it did not take here long to come to the realisation that it wasn't an ordinary phone. Receiving and sending calls was managed by someone else; the phone shut down when Jemma attempted to call for help and automatically began dialling Peggy's number a few minutes later. Fitz must have planted it in her pocket without bringing it to her attention. 

Of course Peggy answered quickly. Hearing Peggy and Sherlock's voices sprung tears of both relief and fear into Jemma's eyes and this time she did not resist them as they spilled over. "What's going on?" An explanation, any explanation, would help. 

"It's alright, we're on our way. We're back in England." Peggy sounded a bit out of breath, as if she were walking hastily. "The Yard is coming for you." There was rustling that Jemma assumed was Peggy handing the phone over to Sherlock.

Water lapped at Jemma's midriff, tightly clinging like cold and clammy hands. Time was ticking quicker than ever. Jemma paused, before murmuring, "Sherlock, I'm scared." Admitting it aloud was more painful than she had anticipated. 

A beat. "I know, Doctor Simmons. But you are a woman of great courage, even in the face of danger."

His steadiness imparted something similar to strength back into Jemma. The panic died down, replaced by the low hum of calmness. Hearing _Doctor Simmons_ reminded her that above all, she was a scientist. _Scientists suffer and die for something much bigger than themselves_ , Jemma told herself. Wiping away the tears from her pale cheeks, she took a steadying breath. Sherlock was right; she was a woman of courage. To die with fear in her heart would be cowardly.

There was one thing that could never be taken away, even by death, and that was her sense of courage.

\-----

 _This explains a lot_ , Peggy thought, looking at the remains of the prehistoric Holmes residence. Merely seeing the exterior was enough to inspire terror; it was unsightly and old and the charred remnants were the furthest thing from welcoming. It's location, far away from the main town, placed amidst only waving grass and the massive sky, did not aid in its appeal. While it was still in one piece during the Holmes children's upbringings, even in tact it was not a suitable place to raise any child with the expectation for them to be normal.

The graveyard in the front, with its grey stones protruding out of the pale green grass, initially struck Peggy as disturbing until she drew closer. The names and dates were dimly lit by the moonlight which was trying desperately to break through the clouds.

"These dates, they aren't real," Peggy said, looking closer at one. "This one reads, 'Elizabeth Holmes, age 27, 1886 to 1999'".

She felt Sherlock hover over her shoulder. "I used to read here."

"You used to read books in an imitation graveyard? How unlike you," Peggy dryly replied. Whatever reservations she had begun to harbour evaporated upon seeing the house. She only knew pieces of his past, fragments here and there. Peggy glanced over at him, thinking that whatever happened to him, whether he was aware or not, had traumatised him into the notion that any of the softer emotions were pagan. He genuinely did not know any better. Irritation was replaced by pity.

"Why does Eurus want us here?" Peggy finally raised the question. Her phone rang as if to answer and Sherlock put it on speaker phone.

"Hello, sister dearest," he said briskly. "How are you?"

"Don't play that game with me, the one where you pretend to be nice." Eurus sounded vaguely disgusted, but there was something else in her tone that made Peggy listen harder. Her voice sounded thicker than usual. "Have you figured it out yet? The final problem?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened and he said nothing.

"I'm going to pass the time while you figure it out," Eurus said calmly. Whatever Peggy thought she heard in her tone was gone. "Meanwhile, Jemma is drowning and the Yard won't be able to get to her unless you figure it out."

A sick feeling settled in Peggy's stomach. She evenly replied, "We called them, they're coming for her."

"Yes about that," Eurus slowly drawled. "There was another call and someone may have said that it was a false alarm. Until my brother solves the problem, no calls are getting through to the Yard. Jemma is drowning every second that passes." Eurus cleared her throat and in an airy, high voice, said, "Give a man a puzzle and watch him dance."

" _Eurus, stop this now_."

Peggy had never heard Sherlock sound so aggravated with anyone; his voice, deep and commanding, made her stop breathing a moment. Even Eurus paused briefly before letting out a peal of laughter.

"You always were the stupid one," Eurus mockingly answered. Peggy didn't have to see her face to imagine her bony features twisted into an unfeeling and condescending smile. "Hopelessly gullible. You still actually believe we had a dog when we were little."

His methodical breathing stopped as if the oxygen went cold in his lungs. Peggy tapped him slightly, but he didn't move, eyes trained on the phone. "Of course we had one," Sherlock finally said and his voice sounded odd. Weaker than usual. Fragile, even.

Eurus heaved a sigh. "We never had a dog." Her tone was bitter and it was sharp enough to cut through concrete. "What was your friend's name again? Oh yes, Victor. He was a sweet boy. It was a shame I drowned him." She clicked her tongue in a nauseating imitation of sympathy. "You took it pretty hard. You were so young, so vulnerable. You never wanted to believe what happened was real, so you told yourself a better story. One where Victor was never even a real person. You've always been like that, Sherlock. You always wanted to believe in different endings. Moriarty blew his brains out but you were so eager to accept the staged notes and messages from him because that's what you wanted to believe."

As if he'd been punched or had the air knocked out of him, Sherlock stumbled forward, his gaunt hand steadying himself on a gravestone. Dropping the phone, it hit the grass, it's bright screen illuminating a small patch of where it landed. Whether he was having a panic attack or a drug withdrawal symptom, Peggy needed him to stay with her for everyone's sakes. Letting the phone rest there a moment, she stepped forward, getting on her knees next to him. She began to speak but the tremor in her voice was too distinguishable. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "Look, Sherlock, I don't know what's going on. But I need you to keep it together. For me."

A pause. She couldn't see his face but his breathing steadied. He snapped upright, picking up the phone swiftly, as if he'd been recharged. He spoke quickly, in the voice he typically reserved for clients. "Alright Eurus. What is it that you want? What's it all for? Surely, it's not for Doctor Simmons, it's not for Doctor Fitz, it's not for Dorothy Underwood, it's not even for the lovely Agent Carter. What is it that you really want?"

"I want you to solve the problem. Our problem. You and me, till the end. Always has been. You are in deep waters, Sherlock, way too deep."

Sherlock was thinking, Peggy could practically feel it. She was so focused on watching him process in the information that she almost didn't hear Eurus say, "Speaking of deep waters...Peggy you are no stranger to them."

Eurus had turned all her attention to Peggy and was in no mood to leave any time soon. Peggy exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the cold air. "What are you talking about?"

"Algorithm."

A simple word. Nine letters. It bore into Peggy's brain so painfully that she felt herself drop onto the ground. Her fingernails dug deeply into the damp, soft earth but the physical exertion did little to alleviate her pain. The house, Sherlock, the world, it felt so far away. Panic clawed its way into her chest, constricting her breathing. Eurus was repeating it, over and over again.

"Remembering is painful isn't it?" Eurus could not have sounded more processed or stoic if she tried. "It hurts so much."

**New York City, 1954.**

Peggy leaned forward in the metal chair, adjusting to the discomfort. The guards in the corner stood, staring blankly ahead. Her high heel tapped on the ground, her knee bouncing under the table.

The steel door swung open with a deafening creak, as a small man with greying hair and a thick German accent emerged. He sat across from her, a thick file in hand. There was an unassuming quality about him that Peggy automatically felt at ease with, although she didn't trust him in the least.

"I am Professor Abraham Holtzer." He smiled at her. She said nothing; she was well taught. He looked into her brown eyes for a moment."You think that I am a Nazi, Agent Carter?"

His query called for an answer. She took her time before replying, letting him be fully aware that no matter what, she had the upper hand. Always would. "I do not."

A slight nod. "Good. I may be German but I work under the SSR's capacity. I want you to be able to trust me, so here." He unstrapped the gun from his belt and set it on the floor. He motioned for the guards to move away. Peggy continued to be silent, quietly observing. "Are you familiar with Hydra's Algorithm, Agent?"

"I've only heard it mentioned once. It's extremely confidential."

Holtzer almost laughed a little. "Here is everything you would ever want to know on it, in one file. Rather ironic."

He passed it over to her. Peggy stared at him a moment longer before dropping her eyes downward and flipping open the case file.

Hydra's Algorithm. The ability to predict the future, was the subheading of one document. Peggy was more interested than she'd care to admit, her causal skimming turning into intensive reading. Hydra had created a system, a process that could determine IQs, events and other phenomenons before they came into existence. Their method for their predictions was complicated and almost immediately brought on a headache trying to comprehend. It was interesting but a colossal fantasy. Peggy handed the file back, unimpressed.

"We're looking for agents," Holtzer said, his tone becoming wholeheartedly serious. Perhaps he sensed her practicality and lack of belief. "Soldiers. No one dared to accept our offer and you are our last candidate."

"For what?"

"We are going to put various candidates through a preservation comatose. There is a preparation phase of two months, where you will have to take certain pills to prep yourself for the prolonged period. Your body will shut down entirely; you will not age, you will not change mentally or physically in any way. However, out scientists believe that there will be significant memory gaps. And the culture shock will be immense; anyone you know in this decade will no doubt be deceased when you awaken. Times will be incredibly different and in order not to draw attention to yourself, you will need to adjust to the new time, unaided. This is a confidential program thus only a few people in the future are going to be able to help you and even they will be limited. You cannot mention what happened to anyone other than those select individuals. You are going to be alone through the majority of this; you'll sleep alone for however many years, you'll adapt to a new era alone, you'll make choices moving forward alone."

"What's the point of it all?" _Sell it to me._

"The algorithm strongly suggests that unprecedented events will occur that only the strongest soldiers and agents will be able to help prevent."

The silence following this monologue filled every corner of the room. Peggy listened to her own breathing a moment. _In, out. In, out._

"Tell me more."

\-----

"You did know Moriarty," Eurus went on, ignoring the sounds of Peggy's jagged breathing as memories stabbed her mind. In fact, Eurus seemed to be enthralled by Peggy's pain, pressing forward with more enthusiasm. "You see, M was infiltrating Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D for years and no one noticed. He read your file, Peggy, and seemed to take quite a liking to you." Eurus let out a slight laugh as she recalled, "He always called you Lady In Red because of the picture of you with your bright lipstick in the file. Do you remember the first doctor you saw when you woke up? Doctor Brooke. Irish, brown eyes, black hair..."

**2015**

Peggy crossed her legs on the examining table. She wanted to lay back; her head was still spinning. She wasn't tired; her body was buzzing, every nerve awake. At the same time, her eyes were heavy and each time she blinked, it burned. As she rubbed her temples with her fingers, the door opened and a young man with a white coat and a clipboard came inside. "Miss Carter?"

His Irish accent was pleasant to listen to and made Peggy feel more comfortable. His presence commanded her attention at once which was unusual because he was neither impressive in height or structure. Unable to put a finger on exactly what it was that was both charming and mellow, she gave up trying to decipher him. Gratefulness for someone who could explain what was occurring outweighed her need to scrutinise.

"I'm Doctor Brooke. S.H.I.E.L.D sent me to take care of you." He swung a chair around so he could face her, casual and at ease. "How are you feeling?"

"A bit dizzy," Peggy replied, allowing herself to smile slightly at his warm manner. The twist of anxiety in her stomach relaxed. Any friendly face was welcome; he was pleasant and seemed trustworthy enough.

He made a note. Peering at the clipboard, she saw his orderly and small handwriting clearly. "What do you remember about the plane crash?"

Peggy's breathing hitched. "I don't remember a plane."

Brooke set the clipboard on the examining table. The professional and crisp edge that is so strongly merited in doctors was set aside. It did not feel as though she were around a doctor anymore, instead it was far more personable. "Please, tell me what you do remember? I can help fill in the blanks."

"I just remember feeling...cold? I don't know where I was. And then nothing. I woke up in a S.H.I.E.L.D bedroom."

"Well," Brooke calmly began, "There was a group of scientists studying the ice caps around Greenland. They found you and your two friends frozen inside of a plane. There appeared to be quite a crash but we can't quite figure out how you all were so well preserved for so long. No matter though," he added, his tone lightening, "We will be able to get together the full story soon enough. The important thing is, you are alive and healthy."

Peggy said nothing, the worry beginning to build back into her thoughts. Was there a plane? She couldn't recall. It was not like when she had once gotten drunk and couldn't remember what happened that night. It was far worse, far deeper, extending and dampening every single memory of her past. A blank void replaced any memories of what happened. except that it wasn't a skip; the blankness was as real and vivid as a memory in of itself.

Her gaze flickered over towards the mirror across the room where she could see herself clearly defined. Lifting her hand to her cheek, her digits ran over her smooth but cold flesh. This didn't fit, this didn't make sense. No laws of physics could apply to this preservation. She was supposed to be dead or at least be prehistorically old. Not be the epitome of health and youth. It wasn't right. The mere thought _this isn't right_ latched on and clung to herself every time she looked in a mirror. 

The nervous tightness returned, tingling beneath her skin. She repressed a shudder. The lights were too bright, the sterile scent of rubbing alcohol was too strong.

Across from her, he extended his hand. Out of instinct, Peggy shirked away. His brown eyes met her's, unassuming and placid. "I'm not going to hurt you, Miss Carter. I'm just checking your pulse."

A beat followed this statement. Meeting his eyes, she saw nothing to fear. They were expressive and deep, utterly harmless. He waited for her to offer him her arm. A shiver coursed down her arm as he cupped her wrist with his firm fingers. Surely he felt how her heartbeat was fluttering. He lingered a moment; not long enough for her to react but long enough for the sensation of his touch to burn.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. "Don't worry, Miss Carter. You'll be just fine."

\-----

The pain dulled enough for Peggy to focus again. The ground stopped twisting beneath her and Eurus' voice emanated loud and clear again. Her wrist burned merely from the memory of when that man, the one Sherlock lived in terror of, had smiled into her face and caressed her hand. The man who infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D flawlessly, intent on manipulating her to believe a reality that never existed. The man who put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger without a second thought, just so he could die knowing that one man would be haunted by the thought of him for the rest of his life. Moriarty never was a psychopath; psychopaths make mistakes. He wasn't a man at all, Peggy dwelt on. He was a spider, creeping and sliding himself and his web of terror into people's lives. And he wouldn't want it any other way. _Eurus and Moriarty must have gotten along spectacularly._

And she'd never suspected a thing.

Eurus wasn't lying about what happened to Peggy. Why should she lie? Eurus never lied, she was always right. Lying was for people who lacked the mental clarity to bring someone to their knees with the harsh truth. The resurge of memories, both painful and sweet, turned Peggy's stomach and for a moment she was sure she was going to vomit. Eurus fell silent, her harassment ceasing a moment. Sherlock was talking to her and she thought she felt his hand on her shoulder but she was too numb to respond or move. It was a shame too, she probably could have taken to heart his unusually kind words. Instead, she knelt motionless in the grass, feeling it dig into her knees. No tears formed, no emotion prickled behind her eyes. It surprised her; she wanted to cry, she wanted to scream and vent out what she was going through.

Her throat closed up and eyes burned but she couldn't cry.

It was an out of body sensation, as she brushed Sherlock's hand off herself and picked the phone up from the bed of weeds. She wasn't calm, not hardly. No anger squalled inside of herself anymore and neither did the waves of sadness. It wasn't acceptance, it wasn't vengeance, it was nothing.

She'd felt everything for so long that she no longer felt anything.

Peggy wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time. Neither happy nor sad nor angry nor fearful. Hollowness that resonated so deeply that it was no longer in her mind but also coursing through her veins and flowing through her bloodstream. She could not care if she wanted to, she could not cry if she tried. Licking her chapped lips, she stood up on strength that was not her own.

"Tell me where Fitz is or I will make you beg for mercy." The words were not loud and harsh as one would expect. They were hushed, leaving her lips smoothly and meticulously.

Eurus was quiet. Eurus knew she'd pushed it too far with Peggy. Eurus knew that her game was quickly coming to an end and the silent intensity of Peggy Carter was not something to be taken lightly.

That hint in Eurus' tone had returned. It made her voice sound thicker, as close to emotion as she could possibly imitate. "He's at the lake. Sherlock knows where. It's probably too late by now, I told him to drown himself."

Peggy heard herself say, unperturbed, "Okay." She handed the phone to Sherlock. The hollowness still did not ache and the nothingness kept her hands from trembling. Her heart didn't palpitate from stress, urgency did not overcome her system. Straightening her back, she felt her throat vibrate as her lips formed the words, "Keep Eurus on the line. Point me where the lake is."

Looking into her dark eyes, he was concerned, more than he had been for a person in a long time. It was a replication of a mask he had worn dozens of times. No one knew just how deep the hollowness felt or the numbness better than him. All the same, he made no further move to console her or try to reach inside the hollowness to bring back the Peggy he so deeply cared for. Sentiment would be a pointless waste of valuable time. Peggy was not a woman who sought pity under any circumstances. Every tribulation, every scar, she wore with grace and dignity. Even then, as she stood before him, she did not show a flicker of weakness, rather the courage and determination that only a solider could possess.

\-----

One foot in front of the other, she began her pursuit of Fitz. Her ire simmered low against Eurus. For some reason she could not fully explain, she felt a shred of pity for Eurus. She could not imagine living such a loveless and pointless life.

Being alone on the walk to the lake and not dwelling on the resurge of memories was impossible. The grabbing hands of her subconscious caught a hold of her, pulling her back into their depths. Instead of being a mortified star of the nightmarish memories, she was a mellow passerby. Walking through the memories, she saw herself laying on the examining table, listening and trusting what the so-called doctors told her what happened. She saw the bottles of drugs that she'd freely let them stab into her both before and after the comatose just because they said they were S.H.I.E.L.D and she was foolish enough to trust them. Phil Coulson hadn't said anything about the truth even through he surely knew about it. Melinda May hadn't either and she'd been one of the first faces Peggy saw when she opened her eyes. They'd all nodded and agreed with the doctors.

She was smarter than that. She should have known better than to trust S.H.I.E.L.D. Cults, organisations like that were built on the good intentions that paved the way to hell.

 _Lying murderers_. Her thought was as sour as the taste in her mouth.

Her shoes were swiftly removed as she hit the sandy shore of the lake. The immense, dark ripples lapped at her ankles as, more on autopilot than anything else, she began to look for Fitz. She didn't bother calling his name; she didn't know how much more energy she had left and was saving up her words for when she found him. Realising the possibility that he was hostile still, she pulled up the hem of her skirt and unstrapped the small pocket knife she carried around on her thigh constantly.

Small and pathetic, he was sitting in the sand on the shore. The glassy look shone in his eyes, especially bright in the flickers of moonlight that broke through the clouds. Peggy approached with caution.

"We're going home, Fitz. Come on." She tried to keep her voice light and casual. It came across about as breezy as the completely still air around them.

Fitz didn't say anything as the water moistened his pant legs. She wondered how long he'd been sitting there.

"She said to go in and close my eyes and let myself sink."

"She's also insane so there isn't much to go off of there." Peggy stood over him, loosening her grip on the knife. He wasn't dangerous anymore. Just trying to resign himself to a death he did not want to face.

"She said that it would be heavenly, to finally feel nothing."

Peggy didn't answer. It must be heavenly, to not feel anything. She barely felt anything in that moment, not the sand under her feet or the cool patches of mist that lazily floated off of the lake. And yet the hollowness inside of herself did not feel heavenly in the least. It was as if the nothingness had a strong emotion in itself.

"I can't do it." Fitz did not sound like a man at all anymore, rather like a helpless child. "I can't drown. I don't know why. She made it sound so simple."

Peggy had situated herself on the sand beside him while he spoke. Looking out at the water, she imagined Sherlock playing here as a young boy. Maybe she just wanted to imagine a happier childhood for him than he actually had. Like Eurus had said, sometimes it was easier to just tell yourself a story than to see the harsh reality. The sounds of young children laughing while walking down the shore seemed incredibly real. And Eurus. Where had she been during this? Eurus didn't fit into Peggy's imagination like the rest of the Holmes children did. She was a child once, too but not even Peggy could grasp that idea.

Fitz spoke again, low and soft. "She's got me. I can't get her out of my head now."

Fitz wasn't a friend anymore, he wasn't a client. He was a mission. Peggy turned her reflective eyes upon him. Eurus had compared the psyche to a fluid, easy to manipulate. She'd broken Peggy with one word. One word had brought her to her knees.

One word.

"Jemma."

No reaction.

She repeated it again.

Not a flicker.

"Simmons."

It was difficult to see a difference at first but she saw the way his breath hitched. Encouraged, Peggy pushed on, saying the name over and over until it no longer felt like a word at all but rather a key that could unlock the lost boy before her. With a cry that would forever embed itself into her memory, she felt his arms wrap around her neck, almost knocking her over. He was trembling from head to toe, but he was freed.

Peggy did not exhale in relief but she helped him stand up and lead him back to the Holmes mansion.

\-----

Sherlock was still talking to Eurus when she returned with the shell-shocked Fitz. Fitz couldn't recall anything that happened while under Eurus' manipulation, Peggy had quickly come to the fruition of. She was not about to tell him that his girlfriend was trapped and drowning because of him and definitely going to die if Sherlock could not talk sense into Eurus. Fitz sat down quickly in the tall grass, worn from the walk and the trauma. The numbness still enveloping Peggy, she emotionlessly walked past him and joined Sherlock's side.

"I want you to land the plane. That's all you have to do and Jemma walks free." Eurus would have sounded pleading if she was not so incapable of the emotion. "There's a little girl alone on a plane and she's going to crash very soon. She's scared and lost in the sky. She's so high up and no one can get to her. You have to solve the problem."

"Eurus, I---" Sherlock cut off, his eyes flickering with something that could only be described as a stark realisation. Peggy watched him closely, trying to follow whatever direction his thoughts were going in.

Sherlock dropped the phone and started walking towards the house. Peggy did the natural thing and followed him but she doubted that he even knew she was there. No one could keep up with his mind once it was set into motion. She followed him into the dark and dusty foyer, towards the winding wooden stairs. Each step made her legs burn with what she assumed was exhaustion but was too distracted to give any further thought to.

Sherlock knew where he was going, there was no doubt about it. Peggy continued to trail him, eyes occasionally skirting around the abandoned hallway. Ashes and soot lined the walls and floor, the dust particles floating in the air and giving her mouth a bitter taste. Sherlock stopped at a door and swung it open, almost breaking the hinges.

"There never was a plane."

His words were not addressed to Peggy but they still struck her hard. _There never was a plane_. She stood in the doorway as Sherlock advanced into his former bedroom, both of their eyes set on one person.

Eurus hugged her legs tightly. She was different than when Peggy saw her in prison and talked to her over the phone. The one she knew before was a calculating monster, not the shell of a little girl on her older brother's floor. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut, as she rocked back and forth as if it were to comfort herself. Her phone rested an arm's length away.

Sherlock knelt down in front of her. Peggy kept her distance. Eurus had brought her pain and heartache and she did not trust herself enough to get close to her. The knife pressed into Peggy's thigh, a warning and reminder of what Eurus deserved.

Sherlock tediously moved closer, trying not to frighten her. "Eurus, look at me."

"I'm lost in the sky and I'm going to crash." It took Peggy a moment to realise that Eurus was on verge of tears. She dug her fingernails into the doorpost. "I don't know how to land."

There was a pause. She saw Sherlock reach out and touch one of Eurus' hands. "I can help you."

"No you can't. Not even you."

"Eurus, I can help you land." There was something desperate and searching in his voice that Peggy had never heard before. A _need_. He wanted to help her. Somehow, he was willing to forgive her for everything and help her. How he managed to look past every single thing she'd put him through, Peggy was unable to fully understand. All the forgiveness inside of Peggy could not cover over what Eurus had done. A silent observer, Peggy watched with bated breath.

"Please let me." Sherlock was soft, coaxing. So unlike anything Peggy had seen before.

"No, no, no, no...Go away..." Eurus' hid her face in her knees, her voice breaking. She was even more pathetic than Fitz on the beach. She kept murmuring over and over the words, methodically. Trapped in her own head, rocking back and forth. There was no hope, no future left for Eurus. Her complicated emotions resided on a different level than anyone else and no one could reach her. All those times Peggy had thought about how Eurus was high above anyone else, she had not realised that it was quite so literal.

She was trapped and so high up, no one could get to her.

"I love you."

The oxygen froze in Peggy's lungs and she forgot to breathe. It was easy to believe she'd just imagined what she heard Sherlock say to his sister but no. It was as clear as the early morning air, untouched by the world around it. Pure and undefiled.

The silence following the statement was loud and intense. Peggy's quickening heartbeat rattled her chest, waiting for some reaction, any reaction, from Eurus.

Until Eurus' shoulders trembled with an unbridled sob. It may have been the first time she'd ever cried. It was genuine, it was raw, tearing at her soul with claws deeper and deeper until she felt a real emotion for the first time in her life. Sherlock pulled her tightly against him as she clung to him until that desperate need for love she'd carried for so many years was fulfilled.

Time was irrelevant, the numbers slipping off the clock. The climax of it all was so simple and subtle, rising and gently cascading down into a release of the tension. Slightly stunned, her heart rate slowing down, Peggy drew a few paces back and dialled 999, murmuring into the phone for them to come get Jemma. She prayed Jemma was still alive. As for Fitz...someone would have to tell him what he'd done. Peggy couldn't handle the prospect in that moment.

Appearing back into the doorway, she saw Eurus' dark hair streaming over her brother's knees as she slept for the first time in decades. Sherlock looked up at Peggy, a silent invitation for her to come closer. Her tread was light on the knotted wood floors as she brought herself over to Sherlock and the sleeping Eurus. Kneeling down next to him, Peggy saw a look of serenity on Eurus' resting features that she herself longed for.

The quiet pressed against every corner of the room. Her eyes could not leave Eurus' peaceful face. The predator had dissolved into a pitiful prey. For the first time in what felt like ages, Peggy exhaled.

Sherlock's voice was low. "Why are you crying?"

"I'm not crying."

Sherlock didn't say anything else as Peggy brushed the back of her hand against her cheek. It came away wet. She had not realised that the hollowness was replaced by pure exhaustion. Her body did not fully allow herself to feel again; the facade cracked enough for a few tears to slip through but nothing more.

She couldn't even begin to imagine how Sherlock must have felt, the frame of his sister in his arms and the frame of his past surrounding him. In a wave of unexpected pity, Peggy reached over and took his hand. She always thought his hands would be bony and harsh but as he reciprocated the gesture by tangling her fingers in his, his hands were smooth and unexpectedly gentle. She was unable to bring herself to touch Eurus and doubted that she'd ever have that much forgiveness in her heart. Staring down at Eurus did bring forward a bittersweet ache in her chest; all the monster had been was a child who had desperately needed love.

_Emotional context. It destroys us all in the end._

Emotional context was all Eurus had wanted.

The curtain could finally fall on the final problem and it would never be opened again.


	18. The Recovery Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since an update! Sorry about that, everyone. I'll be updating more regularly now :)

"You aren't usually like this,  Miss Carter."

"Like what?"

A beat. "Mechanical."

"You're always like this."

"True, but I choose to be."

Peggy shifted. A hospital hallway is a difficult place to try to have a conversation with anyone; no matter where you are, you're automatically in the way. A nurse bumped into her shoulder and Peggy viewed it as a signal to continue walking, Sherlock trailing her half-heartedly. She was in no mood to talk, debate or discuss. From her tense shoulders to the aggressively sharp sounds of her heels clicking on the hospital linoleum, her agitation radiated like an aura around her. Pushing open the door to Jemma's room, a smile clicked into place as she locked eyes on the patient. Her face hurt from trying to remain so uplifting for Jemma's sake.

Paralysis was thought to be the logical result of her injuries. Of course, Jemma had not been told about this yet and Peggy could not yet bring herself to. She'd attempted to, a few times. Walked in there with her responsibility, prepared to tell her in a calm and brisk manner. Every time she saw Jemma's face, she could not bring herself to. The words went cold in her throat and the only thing she could do was mutely smile and make light comments about how well Jemma was looking.

In a short wave of desperation, she briefly considered asking Sherlock to tell Jemma. After all, he could always be counted on to remain direct yet mellow. She dismissed it quickly; there was no reason to throw her responsibility on him and Jemma would rather hear it from a closer friend.

Even now, perched amongst pillows and blankets, Jemma looked young and helplessly naïve. The dread of the situation constricted Peggy's chest. Licking her dry lips, she forced herself to maintain her smile. Jemma returned it but her eyes were distant and glassy.

"Are you feeling alright?" Peggy perched herself next to Jemma on the bed.

Jemma sounded troubled. "I can't move my legs still. The doctors won't give me a definite answer on why not. It was just a couple fractures, I thought."

 _Oh god, just get it over with_. Peggy tugged at the blankets around Jemma, trying to make the girl more comfortable. Her throat was dry and she wanted something to drink. Something strong, preferably. Roughly picking at the skin around her nails, Peggy parted her lips and Jemma waited for her to speak.

Much to Peggy's alleviation, the door opened and the same nurse who bumped into Peggy in the hallway appeared. "Miss Carter? We found a Mr. Holmes stealing our morphine supplies just now.  That is a criminal offence and if you don't get him to stop, we will press charges."

Any chance to leave the room was a welcomed chance, even under those circumstances. Peggy kept her face blank of any signs of relief. "Of course. I'll be right back, Jemma."

Jemma didn't say anything, just nodded.

Drops of blood on the sheets from where Peggy dug at her skin did not escape Jemma's notice.

\-----

"You're high."

Irritation, hot and fast, drilled down her spine; her face remains coldly neutral. She hated seeing him like this but there was no need to show him. He knew that and most of all, he knew better. With a hand, Peggy motioned for the nurse to leave, shutting the door behind her. Picking up the clipboard from the counter, Peggy looked it over.

"You've administered almost four grams of morphine just today." Peggy slammed the clipboard on the floor with more intensity than she had intended. She met his eyes and when he looked away first, it doubled her sense of dominance. The tension tightened her back and she wanted to move around, shake off the aggravation she was experiencing.

Sherlock didn't look surprised or flinch at the sound of the plastic clipboard cracking against the tile floor. Didn't resist when she walked over to him and rolled up his sleeve, exposing the various bluish bruises scarring his forearm. She turned away before he could see the look of disgust enflamed on her cheeks. She kept herself facing the wall a second, gathering herself and self control. His hazy and bloodshot eyes studied her, the rise and fall of her shoulders, the delicate waves of her curls cascading down her back.

She cleared her throat multiple times, forced herself to face him. With her eyes flashing sparks and fire, she said with venom, "You're going to go to Ana and Jarvis' house because they'll supervise you until I get home. Leave. Now."

There was no resistance in his bones; they'd been mellowed and were vulnerable to her direct orders. Peggy held perfectly still, refusing to let herself to flicker or dart forward when he stumbled while standing up. Let him suffer, let him fall, she was not going to bend into the indulgences of caring for someone who purposefully hurt himself and others.

Watching him stumble in his drug induced state out, Peggy couldn't suppress the smallest twinge of guilt. Drugs were a habit, a fallback plan when things were in unrest. Habits are difficult to break, especially when things are in upheaval. With a small, barely audible sigh, she shook the situation off of herself and allowed him the benefit of the doubt. Eurus had taken a piece out of him, something integral that was irreplaceable and undefined. Perhaps it was for the better; there was something softer and more serene about him. _But that could also be the high_ , the voice of doubt had echoed in her mind, loud and persuasive. People like Sherlock do not change overnight. 

Peggy glanced down at her phone, although she knew there wouldn't be a text from Fitz.

After telling him what he'd done, Peggy was in no mood to ever face a situation like that again, which was why she was so hesitant with Jemma. Fitz had no memory of the entire event, he did not even know Jemma had been at the Holmes' house. He was entirely brainwashed and Peggy did her best to enforce that fact upon him whilst she informed him of the events of that night. Fitz did not overreact in the way she had anticipated he would. Instead, he grew silent as the realisation blossomed on his face and quickly excused himself from the room. His silence over the course of the previous two weeks was more audible than any screaming fit.

Jemma felt his absence most of all. She asked about him and every morning when Peggy arrived, Jemma looked up with gleaming eyes of hope that he'd come with her. The first few days, her disappointment and hurt was etched visibly on her face. As the days slid off the calendar, Jemma seemed to come to an acceptance that Fitz was not coming to see her. The shine left her eyes, the hope visibly drained from her peaked features. Summoning courage a few times, she asked how he was doing and from the mere trepidation in Jemma's voice, Peggy knew how conflicted she was. She wanted him to be well but not too well without her. Peggy had smiled, smoothed Jemma's blankets and told her that he was healing from another kind of wound.

\-----

Sherlock ambled, more or less, into the Jarvis' home. The room doubled briefly in his vision before settling back, normal and steady. He knew how high he was, dangerously so, but Peggy's icy manner was far more toxic. The opinions of others were unimportant to him; people as a whole are one giant critic, really. Her opinion mattered, despite that, and although he attempted to, he could not understand why her's stood out quite so vividly.

The house was quiet. Jarvis did not come swooping over, tea in hand, overflowing with his typical amounts of concern and anxiety. The large clock on the wall methodically clicked back and forth, the pendulum swinging in sync. Sherlock shifted slightly, more than content to just collapse on their foyer floor and think until Peggy came for him. After all, Peggy had just said to go there, she did not give any other specific instructions.

Through the fog and muddled mess of this brain, he knew something wasn't right. His intuitions were never to be ignored; they were his brain's instinctual reaction in the face of possible threats or threats to others. Had his mental capabilities been improved and clearer, he'd have noted the absence of Jarvis' jacket and shoes but the presence of Ana's purse and overcoat. Basic things, amateur things, ones he thought back on and sighed in regret of negligence on his part.

Deciding to at least put forth an effort to see if they were there, in attempt to dissolve the nagging intuition, he found his way to Ana and Jarvis' bedroom, breathing in the aroma of her perfume and the distinct scent of Jarvis' leather-bound novels he kept on the wall. Curtains of rain that hit the window made the room dark, making the thin illumination of light around the bathroom door adjoining the bedroom so much brighter. Intuition seemed to take his hand and lead him to the door, forcing him to rap his knuckles lightly against the wood. Silence answered his knock, in exception to a muffled intake of breath.

Something was wrong.

Logic broke through the fog of the high, evening out his mental capabilities enough for him to knock again. Cautiously, he tried the handle and upon seeing that the door was unlocked, he pushed it open.

"Oh god, Ana."

"Why is there...there so much blood everywhere?" Her voice was shaking.

Overreacting is a terrible idea right now. "Ana, what were you trying to do?" He kept his voice steady, approaching her slowly. Ana was fully clothed, laying in the empty bathtub, struggling to sit up, amid the stains of vibrant blood that streaked the white porcelain. For a moment he thought it was a suicide attempt or deliberate self harm. He dismissed the idea quickly; despite the copious amounts of blood, Ana was not of the suicidal nature. Taking a step closer, he got a better look at her.

It was achingly clear from the dark pool of blood imprinted onto her skirt between her thighs. For a moment, the man who always had something to say, was silent.

He didn't have to ask what had happened, Trembling, she tried to wipe her scarlet hands on her blouse. The scrubbing became more frantic, the panic beginning to blossom onto her face. The blurred collage of memories of that afternoon turned into a complete picture as her small face reflected the realisation of what happened. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't even a nightmare which dissolves upon awakening. Ana began choking, gagging, her pale cheeks flushing with colour. Sherlock tried to murmur something soothing but his throat was dry and no words came out. Leaning across her, Sherlock turned the taps on in the bath, sending the blood on the white sides to swirl down the drain, in hopes that the water would do something to ease her discomfort.

Her breathing steadied and the gagging ceased as the majority of the blood vanished down the polished silver drain. Her skirt became soaked in water, washing out some of the stain. "I...I panicked when I knew I..." Ana didn't and couldn't finish. Sherlock swallowed back any threat of nausea and tried to organise his thoughts into a formulated pattern. He'd never dealt with a situation like this before, he hadn't the slightest idea how to advance. Ana's pleading and despairing eyes took it all to a far more personal level. He was tempted to call Peggy, surely she would know what to do, but she was pissed at him and more than likely would not accept the call.

"Alright, Ana," he said in what he hoped was a calming way. "I'm going to call the hospital and we'll get you some doctors to help right away. Everything will be alright."

"No!" Ana sharply grabbed a hold of the lapels of his jacket with one of her scarlet hands. "I can't go to the doctor. Jarvis can't know about this."

"Ana, please."

"Jarvis. Cannot. Know." Sweat trickled down Ana's face, mixing with the tears that rolled down her cheeks. She let go of his jacket. He didn't look down to see if the blood had left an imprint on the wool. He didn't want to know. "Promise me you won't tell him."

"That's against my better judgment."

"Sherlock, you have to promise me. Jarvis will never recover if he hears what happened. He never even knew I was pregnant. He won't get hurt this way at all. All I want is for him not to get hurt."

It was unfathomable to him how she could be so steadfast in keeping her husband from getting hurt. A million voices of reason and common sense argued inside his brain. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what anyone else he knew would do in this situation. John was a doctor already, he'd take care of her on his own and no one would know. His brother would call the medics and ignore Ana's plea. Jemma and Fitz would call for a medic as well, they knew acutely that logic should never be triumphed by sentiment.

As for Peggy, she was a woman of total and complete loyalty. If Ana wanted her to keep it clandestine, Peggy would do so without a second thought.

"Of course, Ana."

\----

"Fitz, isn't it a bit early to be drinking? It's only half past four."

Peggy slid onto the barstool next to him. He'd been easy to find. Naturally, he'd only been living at that bar for the past two weeks. Peggy did not voice her strong disapproval but she was a certain that Fitz could feel it radiating off of her.

"What do you want?" Fitz's hostility was surrounding him like a dark cloud and he did not hesitate to sound sharp with her.

Peggy ignored it, busily removing her rain-sodden jacket and folding it across her lap. She crossed her legs, folded her hands atop the marble bar counter. "Fitz, I think it's time we talk."

"About what?"

"You have to go see Jemma."

Worry cut through the dark clouds for a flash. "Is she okay?"

"She asked about you again today. She wants to talk to you."

The clouds encircled him again. "I can't talk to her."

From the inflection in his tone, Peggy sensed he wasn't done talking, just trying to gather his thoughts. She didn't rush him and patiently waited, glancing outside to look at the pelting rain.

She turned back to him attentively when he began, "I can't face her. Not after what I did. She's better off without me right now."

"We both know that's not true."

A glare and the dark cloud around him grew thicker. "I can't talk to Jemma again. Tell her I went back to S.H.I.E.L.D."

Peggy exhaled. "That's interesting because I am curious why the hell you aren't going back to S.H.I.E.L.D if you truly do care so little for her now."

Fitz twirled the crystal glass in his fingers. "It's not that I don't care for Jemma anymore. Because I care for her, I want to leave. I just am waiting to make sure she's not going to die or anything before I do." He tried to sound careless, aloof, but failed miserably.

Peggy took the glass away from him. "Avoiding her will do nothing productive. Jemma needs you now more than ever. She understands the circumstances of the incident." She leaned closer to him, electing for a gentler tone. "She misses you."

The dark cloud dissipated just enough that for a flickering second, she saw the temptation cross his face, the urge to back down and cease his pretence of hostility. Before he said anything else, his face hardened. His shining eyes became cold and distant, unreadable. He reached for his glass back and Peggy resignedly let him take it. He asked the bartender for a refill and swallowed it back quickly. Peggy didn't say anything but watched him, her dark eyes studying him.

"Fitz, I was wondering what it was like when S.H.I.E.L.D...found me." Repeating the lie that had been told to her for so many years made her mouth bitter. She knocked her knuckles lightly on the marble table to get the bartender's attention before asking for a drink so she could get the taste out of her mouth.

Fitz was caught off guard by the sudden conversation shift but he accepted it quickly, glad to drop the pressure of Jemma and her situation. "Yeah, there was a lot of excitement. Coulson and Melinda took care of most of the things going on though. We were all left out, for the most part."

Peggy considered this, turned it over in her mind. Fitz wasn't lying, he didn't even flinch when asked the question. He genuinely did think there was a plane crash and Peggy had been a frozen relic of the past. He was oblivious to the lie and goodness only knew how many other lies. A weight settled in Peggy's stomach; she motioned for another drink. The alcohol began to flood her senses, relaxing the tension that ached so constantly in her shoulders. Peggy licked her dry lips, took a long sip and asked, "Did you know a Doctor Brooke?"

Fitz thought a moment before nodding. "Yes. He was Irish, I think. A decent guy. He said that we worked in the New York facility mostly and was requested by Coulson specially for your case."

The weight grew heavier. She shifted slightly. Picked specially for her by Coulson? Coulson was an intelligent man, more so than many gave him credit for. He knew the tangled web of crime by heart. Most of all, he knew people by heart. Their minds, their statistics. Even if it was a scrap of information, a tendril in a larger picture, he would have known who Moriarty was. There was no possible way that a man as detestable as Moriarty had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D and Coulson that well.

Peggy finished her drink and against her far better judgment, asked for another one.

\-----

Fitz was not the only one going against his better judgment. After five drinks, he had reached a mental state of apathy. Not enough to numb himself to the situation entirely, just enough so that he got into the nearest taxi and rode to the hospital. He had it planned out, as best he could given his current state. He'd grovel for mercy, cry a little and hopefully, hopefully this nightmare could be over.

Except it wouldn't be and he knew that most of all. He just elected to ignore it.

Looking in on her through the window on her door, he saw her sleeping form on the hospital bed. Under the thin white sheets, her chest lifted and fell methodically, her features still in exception for the occasional flutter of her dark lashes.

Jemma was achingly perfect and everything he wanted and nothing he thought he deserved.

In a perfect world, he imagined himself walking in, sitting down at the edge of her bed. She'd smile her beautiful smile that always cured any sadness in himself and he'd beg for her mercy. She'd kiss him and he would be able to touch her, to embrace her thin figure tightly into his arms until all the pain went away.

That, however, was a perfect world. Not this world. His hand almost touched the doorknob. Almost. The cool metal did not meet his skin. He gave her one last desperate look before turning around and disappearing down the cold hospital hallway with nothing in his heart but utter heaviness that could not be taken away.

\-----

The room was rocking under her feet and Peggy sank into Sherlock's comfortable plaid chair, laying her head back. She wondered where he was and why he wasn't home yet. Too drunk to drive, she used her wiser knowledge and called the Jarvis' to tell him to take a taxi home. Sherlock sounded distracted on the phone but she didn't press.

Things have been strained, Peggy groggily thought to herself, pulling off her shoes which were feeling much too tight. She hated how strained thing were between everyone. Everything felt abnormally tense. Like glass, ready to break under any possible pressure. Every person in their immediate group seemed to have their own unhealthy way of coping, adding to the pressure on the glass; Fitz avoided everyone, Sherlock got high, Jemma slept and as for Peggy...she hadn't been this drunk in a long time.

Steve wouldn't have approved of her being drunk; probably because he himself had not been able to get drunk and had envied the people that could. As Peggy rubbed her temples, which threatened a headache, she realised that Steve would not have approved of her life now at all. It was dangerous, it was dirty. Steve wouldn't have liked Sherlock, she knew that. He'd have told her that he didn't trust him, that he was psychotic. Which was not entirely incorrect, but Peggy had grown rather fond of it over the previous months. She could see it, really, what would have been disapproval sparkling in Steve's crystal blue eyes. Steve would have made an effort to be polite to Sherlock, for Peggy. She knew that. Sherlock and Steve were opposites, lines running in completely different directions without even a mutual goal. The more Peggy thought about it, the more she became aware of their differences. Steve had always embraced Peggy, made her feel protected in his arms. Peggy still could recall the scent of his crisp shirts, the comfort of his presence. Sherlock did not make a single advance towards Peggy physically, but she never felt neglected; the warmth and fondness in his eyes, the way he spoke to her with a regard that he placed no one else in, that resonated deeply. If Steve had known her interest in him, however vague, what would he have thought? The thought was not disquieting, merely conflicting. Peggy sighed, her head feeling as though it were being held underwater.

The man in question walked inside the flat, visibly taken aback to see her in such a disheveled state. She'd have seen his reaction if she the room hadn't moved so much. An uncontrollable laugh escaped her throat as she stumbled to her bare feet to greet him. "Welcome back."

"You've been busy," he mildly replied. The scent of the alcohol on her breath is strong but sweet as she closed the distance between them, just close enough feel the warmth of her body. The pressure of her fingers was light, skimming over his jacket, straightening the lapels. Her balance wavered as, succumbing to the hot wave of intoxication, she leaned her head against his shoulder to steady herself. Ana's perfume wafted from the fabric of his jacket but it did not register within her brain; she simply inhaled the floral scent without a second thought.

It was a bad idea, really, to keep standing there. The logical choice, the right choice, was to pull back from her advances, at least put some space between them. Every voice in his head said to move away but her close proximity rendered him immobile, making him stand perfectly still. Tiredness, exhaustion dug deep, sapping any resolve to resist her. Looking down at her into her dark eyes, she was far more intoxicating than any drink and far more euphoric than any high. Any man in his position would have tried to kiss her, tried to smudge her perfect lipstick and knot their fingers through her shining, almost glistening hair.

Peggy was not his to take. Never would be.

The disappointment ran, quick and hot, through her, almost breaking through the cloud of inebriation as he pulled away, a silent form of rejection. An ache, dull and rapidly forming, filled her chest. Like an unwinding stairwell, the floor twisted. Her knees feeling weaker, she eased herself into the plaid chair again. The initial thrill of escaping into a mental state of alleviation wore off, leaving her feeling nauseated and acutely aware of her impending responsibilities. Jemma, Fitz, Coulson, her past which everyone knew of but herself...

Deep waters. Eurus had said that she was in deep waters and Eurus was never wrong. What Peggy had perceived as sand beneath her feet as she waded through them was a mere illusion; she was out at sea, in the heart of the ocean with no vessels that could reach her. The water crushed her lungs; she could not scream for someone to help her. Sapphire waves, twisting and grabbing, held Peggy under and she did not know how to resurface or feel solid ground.

Until suddenly, as if the answer appeared before her, she did know how.

Sherlock would not be able to help her; he would try. He'd do his best to reach her, try to traverse the water but he hadn't a clue where the sea met the sky. Coulson knew the thin line between sea and sky but he also knew too much. All the others...it was too easy for them to get dissolved into the waves.

There was one woman who knew everything and no ocean could absorb her.

** Three Years Before **

"Incredible."

"Isn't it, though."

The glass was the only thing keeping the two from tearing each other apart. The small red light attached to the camera in the corner of the cell flashed, a warning that although the camera was shut off, it could be flicked on at any moment. Sherrinford had no power over either of them but Sherrinford liked to pretend that they did. It helped them to sleep at night, at least. That night, however, they were unable to and Eurus enjoyed it. Her one yearly request that she was allotted they had fulfilled despite their reservations. Sherrinford felt that they were being charitable.

Eurus knew better.

Ten minutes. No cameras. No audio. Private.

Eurus' breath fogged the glass, obscuring Moriarty's view of her thin features for a moment. She was, for all intents and purposes, exactly where he left her two years prior. Caged like an animal behind a sheet of glass.

Two years had not made an impression on her face; the arch of her cheekbones, the tilt of her lips....she had not changed at all. What pleased him most of all was that her eyes had not changed and neither had the resolve behind them. Starving and carnal, it was just as intense and eager as the day he met her.

He knew better than to patronise her, to make a demeaning comment about how he walked free and she was trapped in a box. It was unnecessary to say anything about it, as she would find something in his words that she could snake her way into with the sole intent on breaking him down. The enjoyment he derived from it still reflected on his face. He couldn't control the vague smugness that slipped across his features. He practically glowed money, power and danger. Trapped in the cage, she was a reflection of nothing he was and everything he deserved.

He didn't like her in any way. Liking someone has too many plot holes and conflicting emotions. He liked her brother Sherlock but also wanted to see a bullet put in that flawless brain of his. Respect was a better term for his attachment towards Eurus; he respected her brilliance. Respected how she fought her way to the top of the chain and would not forsake her place there.

"Sex."

Eurus arched her eyebrow. Critical, unassuming. She did not speak to people regularly and found all of them to be dull and the epitome of mediocrity. Moriarty, he was different. His visits were treats, ones she relished. He was a genius, a self proclaimed king of crime. No crimes could be traced back to him; he could walk into the most secure prison in the world, where he rightfully deserved to be locked up, and no matter how badly the government wanted to, they could not put him behind the bars. He was a shark, smooth and shifting, the most feared animal of the sea. People were afraid of him, the same way they were afraid of Eurus. She didn't give away her hidden pleasure to see him; her face remained neutral through the partition.

"The opposite sex." The way he moved closer, as if the glass were nonexistent, sent an uncontrolled shiver down Eurus' spine in the best possible way.

"Ah."

"Irene Adler?"

Eurus narrowed her eyes slightly. She'd heard of Irene, heard of the woman's name in passing. Dangerous. Intelligent. An equal to her brother in every way but she would not bring him to his knees the way Eurus wanted her to. "No. She's smart. She knows you too well. She knows the game."

He knew she was going to say that. Moriarty took great pleasure in the words that rolled off of his tongue next. "The Lady In Red."

"Whom?"

He tiled his head, dropping their eye contact and she traced his action with her own, struggling to regain the cool connection of his gaze. He didn't answer for a long moment; Eurus could feel the time slipping off of the clock, her internal metronome clicking quicker than ever. He was stalling, purposefully holding her in suspense for his own enjoyment. Anger made her throat tighten, her breathing constrict. She wasn't a toy for him to play with just because he had the power and control and she was stuck in this box. Had there been no glass between them, had it just been two predators freely able to interact, she'd have ripped his throat with her bare hands.

Moriarty made a show of his boredom; he sighed. "Don't get excited, sweetheart."

"Don't patronise me." Soft, threatening. He met her eyes again, noting the hunger that was growing in them. Her pupils dilated, giving her an almost cat-like sheen to them. He knew better than to upset her but she was getting away with far too much in this interchange. Abandoning what he knew to be the logical thing to do, he pushed further, his silence so loud that it made her head throb. The anger returned, pulsing and hot, burning her skin. She wanted to claw at it, dig at it, try to make the burning stop. Most of all, she wanted him to stop reeking of power and control and everything she deserved but could not have.

Her fists slammed the glass but it did not fracture, did not even radiate. He didn't even flinch. The anger bubbled forth, searing her mouth as she spat into his face. "Don't you dare piss me off, don't you dare."

He had the upper hand but god, she was not going to let him have it that easy. Her fingernails scratched at the glass as if she was trying to rip her way through the glass to get to him. As if it were possible, he moved closer to the glass, so close that Eurus did not have to stretch her imagination to feel the heat of his body through it. His eyes glanced around the glass thinly separating them, making a display of it, wordlessly minimising the control she thought she had in her words.

"Don't you dare." Eurus' tone was guttural, animalistic. Enough to make any ordinary person have nightmares for months. Moriarty enjoyed it, savoured her anger. She was a caged creature with no possible way to escape.

Unless...

The hissing sound filled the air as he lightly knocked the button on the wall with his knuckles, carelessly. Eurus was taken aback as the glass partition vanished into a crack in the floor. The fresher air filled her lungs, replacing the stale air of her cell. It wasn't freedom; she was still in a locked room, but it was the closest thing to it that she'd had in years. Moriarty, unprotected by the glass, did not seem alarmed or frightened in any way.

She hated that.

She hated his patronising look, as if he were so much better than her. The anger ran through every inch of her, flooding her senses and thinking. Light and quick on her feet but with unparalleled strength, she slammed him against the wall, her forearm digging into his neck. With every ragged breath, her desire to bring him to her level, to force him to feel her pain that she was constantly riddled with day after day, grew. She wanted nothing more than to make him feel as violated and uncontrolled as she felt every waking moment.

"Who is the Lady In Red?"

Moriarty's eyes blinked in a faked emotion of possible fear. It wasn't actual fear; he didn't experience that emotion. Maybe pretending to fear her was his sick way of apologising for being demeaning. "Agent Peggy Carter. I think you'll find her interesting." A smirk, coy and satisfied, tilted his lips upwards. It was almost as if he enjoyed being pinned to a wall by her. "I brought you a folder on her. It's in my jacket."

Not dropping her forearm or her eye contact, Eurus dug her hand into his expensive jacket, unearthing a thin tan folder titled Lady In Red. Eurus threw it on the ground and with her foot, pushed it into her cell. She was curious about Peggy, more than she'd like to admit to Moriarty's face. The file would make for some enjoyable reading later. "What makes her so special?"

"If there was one woman who could make him get on his knees, it's her. The Lady In Red"

Eurus considered this a moment before dropping her choke hold, giving Moriarty an untrusting but subdued glare. She didn't resist as he yanked her back against him, slamming his lips against her's in a starving, aggressive way, biting her lip until she tasted blood, as she clawed her fingernails into his suit until the fabric began to tear. It was carnal, entirely savage and both positively revelled in it. Neither were capable of anything else and wouldn't have it any other way.

The Lady In Red. The words hung in the air and always would, as if they were painted onto the grey walls with bright, vivid paint. The four words that changed and shaped the Holmes' lives in more ways than Eurus could have predicted.

That night as Eurus opened the folder, she smiled at the picture attached, ignoring the trickle of blood that ran from her torn lip.

_God, this will be fun._


	19. The Daughter Of Time Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been ages since an update, I am truly sorry about that! Please forgive any typos; I'll go back and revise this later. Much love to you all <3

"I want to talk to her."

"You're never talking to or seeing her again." Sherlock's face was neutral; his words were not.

Eurus knew he'd say that. She took in a breath of air before plucking at one of her violin strings. Seeing him again was strange; she'd never formed an actual relationship with someone, let alone a healthy one. Sherlock was trying, really trying to reach her. Without fail, he visited her weekly in Sherrinford. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they didn't. They didn't have to always use words; words could easily be misunderstood and were, most often, unnecessary. Eurus was, undoubtedly, grateful. His expression was steadfastly impassive but there was a warmth to his eyes, a gentleness, an understanding, that reached inside of her. Not as if she'd ever tell him, obviously. But she was, which inspired her to say next, "I know things about her that could help her."

Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "She wants nothing to do with you, ever. You hurt her friends, you traumatised her."

Eurus tilted her head. "Just tell her. It may make more of an impression than you'd presume."

\----

"Why are you telling me this?"

Peggy shifted slightly, her discomfort abundantly clear. Her nervous habit of rubbing her hands in her jacket did not escape his notice and the look of curiosity in his face made her realise her habit. Digging her hands into her jacket pockets, she tilted her head at Sherlock, trying to look as though she were logically contemplating his statement instead of anxiously replaying his words in her mind. How Eurus knew that Peggy wanted to talk to her was uncanny and vaguely disturbing.

"I told her you were uninterested in the offer."

Peggy made some replication of a response; it was too vague to fully understand what it was. A mix between a nod and a shrug. She rubbed her hands again.

There was a pause; not long enough to be loud, just long enough to make both participants feel generally uncomfortable. It would have been wise of either of them to say something, bring some attention to the subject of the night prior. They did not mention it or give any indication; perhaps they wanted to see who would break down and say something first. Peggy was wholeheartedly determined to act as though nothing had almost happened; she tucked her hair over her shoulders in the pretence of detachment.

"I'll go talk to her."

"Are you entirely sure?"

 _No_. "Yes."

\-----

The last person Jemma expected to see when she opened her eyes was Sebastian. How he got in, she'd never know. Straightening herself painfully to sit up, a quick and fast wave of anxiety overcame her. 

"What do you want?" It came out harsher than she intended but she made no move to atone for it.

"I wanted to see how you were doing."

"As you can tell, not bloody well." Jemma was hot; her skin was prickling from head to foot. She wondered if there was a fan she could turn on. Under the blankets, she felt much too warm. Sweat dampened her thin hospital dress.

A hesitation on his part. "I didn't know she was going to do this to you."

"If you had known," Jemma wanted to know, "What would you have done?"

"What do you think?"

His eyes, calm and reflecting her gaze, resonated deeply. Enough for Jemma to drop her eyes first. The heat continued to simmer under her skin. Reaching for the glass of water next to her bed, Jemma took her time drinking, making him wait. Finally, discarding the glass, she stared at him squarely. "Pick a side, Sebastian, You can't try to be my friend when you're killing other people without a second thought. Don't even try." She let that sink in before adding, "I don't know what you see in me, but I assure you, your interest is not reciprocated. Now get out."

And he did, much to her surprise. Walked out without a fleeting glance and for some reason she could not place or understand, she began to wish he had.

\-----

Fitz understood with remarkable clarity that this lifestyle he had adopted was unhealthy. Maybe it was the taxi driver who warned him that if he got into his cab drunk again, he'd punch him a faster ticket to Heaven. Or perhaps it was waking up on a bench outside the bar, his jacket soaked through with the never ending London rains. Going back to his flat, he knew Peggy was going to talk to him. Not chastise, she rarely did that but she'd use the tone she reserved for clients. The idea of a speech, a lecture, was enough to drive him further away.

There was always Sherlock; he was a good listener and nonjudgmental. Fitz considered confiding his thoughts in him but the confidentiality could not be guaranteed. Sherlock and Peggy talked about everyone and everything, Fitz knew that. Surely he'd mention what was going on at some point.

Not going through with seeing Jemma was the worst thing he could have done and he quickly realised that. Grappling with the fact that he needed to do it and also the overwhelming desire not to talk to her, he approached her hospital door multiple times but never went through with the action. Walking down the hospital hallways, he got tendrils of information about her well being from the nurses. She was the enigma patient, as the nurses referred to her as. She was unstable, nervous for no apparent reason. Fitz wanted nothing more than to pull her tightly against himself and remain like that until her anxieties melted away.

It was an entirely unrealistic dream but one he found himself gravitating towards constantly.

\-----

"How are you?"

Ana cleared her throat, unprepared for the sudden and deliberate question. "I'm quite fine." She sat up a bit straighter in bed before casting a smile at Jarvis. "Could you bring me a cup of tea, love? I think there's still some in the kitchen."

Jarvis pecked her forehead before brushing past Sherlock into the kitchen. Ana's smile slipped off of her face, the bright sheen in her eyes vanishing. A sickly, transparent look fell upon her features, a look that she forbid herself to ever show to Jarvis.

"Stomach influenza. Clever. He won't suspect a thing." Sherlock was not disapproving of her secret, merely bearing it. It was still against his better judgment that she hid it and while he would not tell anyone, he was not going to be kept silent without some resignation.

Ana took a deep breath. "I don't want to do this, but I have to. To protect him."

"Protect him from what?"

"The truth. That I was pregnant and miscarried." Ana did not sanitise her words, did not elect for a soft tone, did not try to make any excuses or explanations. The facts were laid out, painful and dry. She was going to acknowledge them with as much dignity as she could manage, even if the facts did twist her stomach and stab agony into her heart.

"I'm not the only one who keeps secrets from people to protect them." Ana stared at him evenly with her colourless eyes. "Did you tell Peggy about the drugs?"

His jaw constricted slightly. "Sorry?"

"I worked as a nurse for ten years before the plane crash," Ana dryly replied. "I know when someone isn't doing well. And I know Peggy. Peggy thinks you just took morphine which is all you told her. What exactly are you taking?"

Her query was not to be ignored; he had too much respect for her to just brush her off. A pause filled every corner in the bedroom before he replied, his tone flat, "Cocaine, heroin, morphine mix. The occasional sedative. A few painkillers sprinkled here and there."

"Injections. I saw on the marks on your arms when you helped me to bed the other day." Ana ran her thin fingers across the swirls of the comforter; he watched her. "Your skin colour. You're having organ shutdown."

Sherlock didn't say anything, acutely aware of the arrhythmia of his pulse in his throat. Ana let out a deep sigh, meeting his eyes again. "You're sick, Sherlock."

"I know."

"And you aren't telling Peggy because you want to protect her from the harsh truth."

Her meaning was clear, she didn't have to elaborate. Their circumstances were alike, they were a mirror towards each other. Two separate people with the same reflection.

"Take care of yourself, Ana." He turned to leave.

"You too. You're going to need it."

\-----

Going to Sherrinford was not a place Peggy ever thought she would have to return to. Much less alone. Sherlock was going to accompany her, he had insisted, but Peggy knew it was something she had to do on her own. The truth that only Eurus knew, was going to be personal. Only what she wanted him to know was specific things she selected, not every single detail.

Eurus was the same, right behind the sheet of glass, but there was a difference. The animal-like savageness that inspired terror in people was gone. Her gaze, formerly hard and unforgiving, reflected a different light. A calmed, subdued one. Her brother's three words had shaped something inside of her that almost resembled a conscience. Accountability for herself and others.

Seeing her, even reformed, still gave Peggy a nauseated feeling. Eurus had given so many people nothing but utter pain. Forgiveness was some thing that Peggy merited strongly but looking in on Eurus, she knew she could not fully forgive her. Eurus was useful, however and Peggy was not going to throw away her chance at understanding what happened.

"Sherlock didn't think you'd come if I asked you to."

"He isn't right all the time."

A sliver of a smile crossed Eurus' face. Tucking her dark locks over her shoulder, she moved quietly forward. Uncontrollably, Peggy felt a chill run down her spine as Eurus' shadow inched closer. She shook it off, her tense muscles twitching. Keeping her eyes trained on the ground but advancing forward, their separate shadows, Eurus' gangly one and Peggy's petite one, intercepted, mingling into one dark form on the grey concrete.

"Why am I here?"

"You wanted to come."

Looking closer, her eyes were colourless, a blank abyss, unlike her brother's vibrant spectrum of blueish green, speckled with gold. Where he was gold, with his warm undertone, she was his silver, a greyish tint outlining her presence. So intent on her inspection, Peggy forgot her original purpose. Her throat felt thick as she cleared it. Smoothing her navy jacket with a nervous and repetitive gesture, the prisoner waited silently.

Eurus moved slowly, stepping into the water that so vastly surrounded Peggy. Eurus wasn't afraid to get engrossed in the ocean or be tossed by the kicking waves, she lived in the eye of the storm since she was born. There was one thing that connected the different women, one line that threaded through both of their lives without either of them even noticing.

The line, the thread, was what subconsciously brought Eurus to say, "I know exactly who you are. You don't but I do. I'm late, but keep your head above water a little longer. For him."

\-----

"Truth is the daughter of time."

An ache built up in her hollow veins, uncontrolled. Each separate nerve was on fire, searing hot flames rose into her sparking system. Every perceived wall, every truth she thought was real crumbled around her feet. Staring at the grey concrete, she partially expected to see the words painted around her with vivid red paint. Of course she could see the words in her mind, could see them when she closed her eyes, would see them every waking and sleeping moment for her foreseeable future.

"No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world." The cushion of oblivion surrounded everything Peggy did. Every choice she ever made. Meeting Sherlock. Staying with him. Surviving a barren planet. Fearlessly forging into cases that would give normal people nightmares. Oblivion was a soothing balm, the only way she'd been able to adjust to waking up.

Eurus reached out and took her psychological crutch away. The only thing Peggy could lean on, her nagging question that had always been enshrouded in mystery and never fully answered.

The crutch of oblivion took many different forms as the months had gone by. Originally her oblivion was a necklace, the only way she had felt loved was when she felt the cool metal resting on her throat. It took a human form, inspiring her to cling to Sherlock as a replacement for what was missing that she couldn't understand. Her oblivion became cases, giving her the reckless adrenaline to push into the blood and tangling strands of the criminal web.

And then Eurus. Her final stage of oblivion, her final problem.

Eurus blew out the flames in Peggy's system as she said with almost a touch of remorse, "It's a lot. People are fragile, breakable. I should have been more discreet."

"I'm not fragile." Pushing the words out of her throat, she mentally stepped aside, as if she were watching herself and Eurus. Her mouth moved, the smooth vibrations of her voice tingled her throat; what she said she had not given any thought to. Full command of her mental faculties was not her's any more; Eurus owned it. Moriarty had owned it. They had owned her mind, her body.

The person she was then, standing before Eurus with lifeless dark eyes, was not Peggy Carter. Peggy had died years ago. When Steve 'died' so had she, in every way. The moment she signed up for a program that she didn't think she'd survive because she no longer had any desire to live and too much pride to put a gun to her head, was the day she died.

She was someone else. A creation, a caricature. A woman who spoke like Peggy, acted like Peggy, thought and moved like her. The only reason she was even there was because Moriarty wanted her to be awakened and no one had argued with him. Without him, she would still be locked in a box, wrapped in darkness and oblivion.

Without Moriarty, she would have been nothing.

"He wanted me to wake up so I could get involved with Sherlock. Throw his balance."

"He wanted you earlier to interfere. Before he killed himself. But you reunited with Steve Rogers and showed no signs of heading to England so Moriarty had his men take action."

"Moriarty killed Steve."

"He doesn't---didn't like to get his hands dirty. He had Dorothy Underwood, the other volunteer in the program, get awakened and sent her on a new mission. Kill Steve Rogers. Muck it up to look like you may have been involved. Just enough you labelled as unstable and exiled home to England. He even planted the idea for you going to work for the Yard so you'd cross paths with Sherlock."

"What do you mean?"

"I suppose it was a bit of inception. Very clever. He always was." A touch of fondness made her ashy face flicker into something softer. "It was little things. You walk down the street, he has someone from the Yard brush into you. The man on his phone next to you on the bus happens to mention the police in conversation. You pick up a newspaper, you see a deliberate headline about rising crime rates. It didn't take long." Taking a half step forward, the carnal glaze slipped over her eyes. "The human psyche is a fluid, remember? So easy."

She was keenly aware of the perspiration forming on her skin, the clammy feeling in her palms helped very little by rubbing her hands on her jacket, her fallback method for self-soothing. It didn't escape Eurus' notice but she made no comment about it. The ache cut like knives into her veins; she wanted to move, she wanted to do anything to stop her hands from shaking and the overwhelming urge to collapse. A scream was caught in her throat, a throbbing ball that blocked her breathing. The rubbing quickened as she asked, "What about Ana and Jarvis?"

"They don't remember?"

"No."

"Humans. Pathetic. I look forward to our species dying out altogether." It was easy for Eurus to get sidetracked by mankind's folly.

"Answer me." Peggy pulled Eurus back into the rails, back onto the line that ran between them.

Eurus did, for her own benefit. "They signed up after you were put into the comatose. Not too long after. They couldn't handle not having you in their world, it would seem. Sentiment is a powerful motivator, rarely for good. They sacrificed their lives and futures for you."

"Me."

"You."

The rubbing continued. Eurus diverted her eyes. "Sherlock."

His name brought her to her senses again. She blinked. "What about him?"

"The line. You hate me and always will. But there is one thing that keeps us connected. You love him, I respect him. As long as you know him, you know me. As long as I know him, I know you. It's inevitable." Eurus let it sink. Peggy didn't, couldn't, answer. The silence, in exception for the low hum of the mechanical door behind Peggy, became denser in every ticking second.

"I don't love him."

Eurus, remaining perfectly still, gave a single indication of disbelief by tilting her head patronisingly. "I wouldn't know the subject. I am not to judge."

The ache tightened her shoulders, found its way down each of her bones, embedding itself deeper in her body. Exhaling, Peggy could hear her own heartbeat, heard the vibrations in her ears. Her palms were beginning to feel raw, the skin starting to tingle.

"This isn't my world then." No matter what, she was an agent. It was who she was, it was her DNA. Calmness in crisis was level one training. Had she been anyone else, she'd have been reduced to a ball of panic.

One thing she knew best was to move forward, whether she knew the direction or not. In Germany during the war, she'd been on the battlefront with the soldiers. Dense fog and dust had filled the air, blocking the view of anyone. She was separated from the fellow soldiers so she'd done the only thing she knew how to do; begun moving forward. Each step unsteady, but still moving forward.

No matter the decade, it was the one thing that had not changed in her coding.

Sucking in a sharp breath of air into her tense lungs, Peggy turned away from Eurus and away from the truth. The comfort of oblivion, it's soft edges and gentle allowances did not appear. There was nothing left. She was exposed in every possible way. It was not anything she was used to and never would adjust to the feeling of.

"No more secrets," Eurus said to Peggy's back. "What are you going to do now?"

\-----

Her whole body ached; she ached as if there were a terrible hollow emptiness carved inside of herself. London slipped away, leaving her with only her throbbing head and quickening pulse.

So many questions had been answered and so many more were raised. Coulson, had he really known about any of this? Peggy couldn't be sure. The only person she trusted was a woman's in prison. It was pathetic, really. All of it. Ana and Jarvis still were in the cloud of obliviousness and it did not take Peggy longer than a second to decide that they would not ever know. Her own happiness was sacrificed and permanently damaged, she'd always have Eurus' words replaying like a broken tape in her brain. But Ana and Jarvis did not have to suffer from a similar fate, not if Peggy had any control in the matter.

Steve.

Steve. The simple thought of his name inspired a resurgence of tears, her cheeks growing flushed, eyes burning. The ache became stronger, cutting deeper than before. Emotional context. Eurus had needed it and perhaps Peggy needed it more than she previously assumed.

Digging her fingernails into her palms, an uncontrolled stumble in her step, she flung open the door, startling the five cats and Sherlock. Meeting his eyes as he impassively stood by the rain covered window, she was more conscious of him than she had ever been of anything or anyone else in her life.

She should have given it some thought. Considered her action. Thought about the possible pros and cons, the logical concerns and questions that would arise immediately thereafter. Dwelt on whether it made sense or was the right thing to do.

Broken down, she gave into what she could not have. Throwing all of remaining logic and her soaked jacket aside, she grabbed him, pushing her lips on his, trying desperately with every laboured breath to have someone cure the ache that was crippling her. The cold twist, the knot in her stomach grew tighter, impossible to unwind. Deep inside her bones the throbbing grew stronger until she was suffocating and clinging to him so as not to collapse altogether.

"What happened?"

Was she sobbing or just trying to regain oxygen into her lungs? Peggy couldn't tell. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I did that."

"No, that was...fine. I meant what happened to you? Did someone make you cry?" With the last query, his sudden and uncontrollable protectiveness in his tone almost warmed the cold feeling inside her stomach. She shook her head mutely. "Was it something Eurus said?" Sherlock assumed and the flicker on Peggy's petite features was enough of an answer for him. "She's insane, don't take it to heart." This was a lie, of course, Eurus wasn't insane in the traditional sense but he wanted nothing more than to see the shattered look on her face go away.

"No, she was right...I don't want to talk about it." Her breathing steadied. The ache, ever pressing, ever painful, was what dragged her to glance upwards at him, her mistake. The voice inside her head, the one that always came at the worst times, wanted to know why she was doing this. Think of Steve.

Her inner demons dug so deeply and without mercy, she needed someone to quell their plaintive and endless cries in her brain. Giving in, expelling the air from her chest with a soft sigh, Peggy let herself be enveloped by the warm pressure of someone else's touch. A soothing and familiar warmth rose into her cold cheeks as he smudged her scarlet lipstick, knotting his fingers through her damp hair; the ache began to drain of its intensity replaced by something else entirely. Mellowness, something akin to comfort flooded her hollow veins. He was sturdy, he was steady, he was not going anywhere. The tremors finally stopped the more she drilled that repetitive train of thought into her head until she no longer heard the monsters in her head at all.

It may not have been, but it felt right. Natural.

Necessary.

\-----

Looking back on it, Fitz wished his sudden of surge of confidence had evaporated. He should have just gone home or to the bar or anywhere else than the hospital. If it wasn't for the scarf, he would not have traversed the cold streets of London to the hospital.

Pushing his way through the crowd fully absorbed in the grey atmosphere and rain, a brilliantly coloured scarf, laying battered and torn on the sidewalk caught his attention. He'd paused, picked it up and ran his fingers over the silky smooth texture, tracing the swirling and bright pattern. It seemed to be the only colourful thing left in the entire world. Subconsciously, a drifting thought wondered how beautiful it would look around Jemma's neck, tucked into her tan jacket she loved so much.

The scarf was battered, the rain making some of the colours bleed into themselves. It reminded Fitz of a watercolour painting, none of the colours obeying the strict design. Surely Jemma would admire the way the colours made their own design, defying symmetry.

There was only way to get it to her which he'd been avoiding for the past weeks but the thought of how much Jemma may like it was more powerful. Making a final decision, he folded it neatly, placing the scarf under his wool coat protectively.

Her room was quick to find; he'd stood outside it many times. A brush of hesitation gripped his hand, pulling it away from the doorknob. A nurse walking down the hallway gave him a strange look; he knew he must look ridiculous standing there and not moving. Considering leaving altogether, the brilliant scarf caught his eye again, the corner peaking out from under his coat.

The metal was cool under his hand as he turned the handle, pushing the door open cautiously.

"Fitz!"

"Je---"

The steely eyes of Sebastian met his as he straightened from his kneeling position before Jemma's wheelchair. His hands dropped from her face, Jemma's arms that tightly bound around his neck flew back to her sides.

He would have been there for her until the end of time, if she wanted him. The only thought that had comforted him during the entire ordeal was the hope that she would still want him. Looking at Sebastian, a nauseating realisation came over him.

"It's not what you think, Fitz, I promise." Jemma tried to stand, her knees giving out. Watching Sebastian catch her and slide her back into the wheelchair, touching his Jemma was more than he could take. Fitz dropped the scarf on the floor, trying to get away. Jemma called after him desperately but the words were wasted.

Cold, sharp air and pinpricks of rain hit his face the second he stepped outside. This wasn't happening, how could it be? First Eurus screwed his brain up and now his girlfriend was in love with someone else. His life, his home was across the ocean. Unable to see through the tears, he sat down on the bench outside the hospital, pulling his scratchy wool coat tighter against himself.

Sherlock had said something once about them. Maybe he saw something like this happening for them and had tried to warn Fitz. Fitz wasn't sure.

Several months before everything had begun to turn for the worst, Fitz had been alone with Sherlock in his flat. Fitz said something about Jemma, he couldn't recall what.

Sherlock had smiled slightly at Fitz. "You love her."

Fitz had been unable to repress the happiness in his voice. "I don't know what my life would be like without her."

Instead of making an apathetic or critical reply about the faintness and idiocy of love, Sherlock assumed a thoughtful look. "She's a fortunate woman to have someone so devoted."

Sherlock was an easy person to talk to; he was always quiet and patient. Lowering his voice, Fitz said, "Sometimes I worry."

"About?"

"I don't think I'm good enough for her. I'm not particularly special. She deserves the best and I'm not sure if that's me.

He took his time considering Fitz's words, not rushing into an immediate answer. "Truth is the daughter of time, Fitz."

"Pardon?"

"Time will tell the truth about your relationship with her." ---a reassuring look--- "However, I have seen how she looks at you. I am sure you both will be fine."

Sherlock was wrong.

Fitz would have stayed on that bench for the rest of the night easily. Incapable of movement, the tape of what he walked in on playing over and over, he hugged himself and breathed in the cold air. Washing the hurt out of his chest with the cleansing air, his breath fogging around him.

 


	20. A soft epilogue

_A year later_

  
"You're boring. Get out."

His shoe taps against the worn wood floor in time with the ticks from the clock. The tapping pauses as her eyes turn upon him with a chastising focus.

"We've been over this, Sherlock." Peggy's head tilts towards the client across from them. "Although, I'm afraid he is quite correct. This case is dull. You are free to go."

As they watch the client rise and exit the room as the dozens have before, Sherlock remarks, "I didn't expect you to agree with me."

She smoothly retorts, "I didn't expect you to be my fiancée but here we are. The only thing to expect from either of us is the unexpected."

*****

Things have changed in the year.

Of course they have.

"Look how you've grown!" Jemma exclaims, lifting one of the newest additions to the Watson's. Ana, cradling the other one in her arms, offers Jemma a gentle smile. "Margaret and Rosemary," murmurs Jemma, wondering if it's even possible for a year to have passed so quickly. Confined to her wheelchair still and bearing the injury with silent grace, Jemma reminds Ana of a desert flower that has blossomed even in the harshest circumstances.

Ana does not yet realise that she has blossomed alongside Jenna too, even with the oppressive conditions.

Mary, freed from her parental duties for a moment as Jemma and Ana dote on her children, holds her warm cup of tea in her hands and eyes them both with the skill that only she has. It's been too long since she's seen them; Ana and Jarvis have purchased a cottage and are tending to their rose gardens and basking in the tranquillity with newfound respect. It took losing that sense of peace for them to treasure it again; even adventure seeking Ana has found that escape in books rather than real life. Mary lacks the details of what has transpired with Ana over the past year but it is evident that a recovery has taken place in some way. Her pale colour slowly returns to its rosy glow, her distant expression has become present again.

"Jarvis and I are looking to adopt," Ana says with something in her tone that had been evasive before; hope. Gazing down at the toddler who clings to her necklace with fascination, Ana continues, "We're thinking of adopting an older child, actually."

"That's wonderful," Mary says with feeling and Jemma nods immediately.

"Well, we figured that we don't have to watch over Peggy anymore since she's quite taken care of," Ana explains with a telling smile. There is a hesitation in the latter part of her sentence, however; just enough of a falter for Jemma and Mary to notice. Ana and Jarvis had spent and done everything for Peggy and now she has found her own place in the world. She does not need to lean on them for support any longer; not that she ever had to, Ana recalls with fondness. However, there had been a transition period before, a time when Peggy wanted the past so badly and they were the only people who understood.

And now she has someone else to confide in, someone who is a worthy friend and more.

"He saved my life," Jemma reminds Ana gently, "He'll move Heaven and Earth for her. I don't doubt that. And she'll do the same for him."

"Thank you, Jemma," Ana says quietly and drops her attention towards Rosemary again.

Jemma shifts Margaret on her knees, looking down into the face of youthful childhood untouched by the world. Brushing her lips against Margaret's forehead, Jemma wishes that she can protect her from everything in the world that she will face.

"Have you talked to Fitz lately?"

"It's been a few months," Jemma replies, attention snapping away from the child and back towards Mary.

"Does that bother you?"

Jemma selects her words with mature care. "It's been difficult. Really difficult, especially at first. But... I've found a level of peace with it and I think that the space is helping him more than he initially thought. He's back at S.H.I.E.L.D and working hard, according to Daisy which is good for him." Her warm eyes, never hopeless, never bitter, shine with the bittersweet warmth of expectation, "I think, I hope, that one day soon we'll see each other again. Perhaps then we can go back to the start and make things write."

Ana comments with dry accuracy, "No man deserves you, love."

Jemma's lips tilt upwards wryly. Mary tilts her head towards the side, takes a long sip of tea. "What about Sebastian? What ever became of him?"

Jemma's cheeks grow a tint rosier than usual. "He's been keeping an eye on me. I see him every so often. Now that Eurus is getting proper medical care, his duties are done with her. Her fight is over and so is his with her. I really think that his desire to work with Eurus died with Moriarty, his favourite employer."

"I would say don't marry an assassin but oh well," Mary remarks lightly. And with a raise of her teacup in a gentle nod towards Jemma and Ana, the conversation turns back towards the children.

*****

"Oh! Darling, not lavender. Garish colour for napkins." Sherlock gestures with one of his long arms at Peggy who takes a place in the worn, well-loved chair opposite him.

"Alright, we will forgo the lavender." Her pen scribbles a hasty note on the pad. "Any other specifications before I continue?"

"Crimson is an excellent colour on you, why not that colour for napkins instead?"

"I won't be wearing the napkins, Sherlock."

"No, but you will be near them and that makes a difference."

"Crimson it is, then." Peggy extinguishes the latter part of her words with an amused sigh. "Is there anyone you'd like me to invite? I don't know why I'm asking this, but do you have any friends?"

His lips part, he begins to answer—

"And don't say John and Mary, they're already on here," she cuts in.

His jaw clamps shut for a moment before replying, "No, I dislike most everybody."

There's a touch of humour in her voice. "Perhaps we should invite Eurus..."

"Invite anyone from my family and there will definitely be some kind of criminal disaster," Sherlock replies.

"Well, then there's Jemma and perhaps Fitz, Ana and Jarvis and Lestrade will come..."

"True..."

"I daresay you have more friends than you think," Peggy responds with an indulgent tone. He glances over at her, her poised elegance and grace that somehow he's earned but never believed he could ever be worthy of. Feeling his stare, Peggy lifts her head and offers him the slightest lift of her lips.

*****

It had been outside a bank heist crime scene where they'd proposed.

 _They_. Both of them, simultaneously.

No sooner did they step out from under the yellow tape, begun the walk back towards their flat, already processing and thinking over the case when Peggy had mentioned being hungry.

"We could get take away," Sherlock absently remarked.

Peggy's arm had clamped onto his navy wool sleeve. "Take away! There is a take away place right across the street, their outdoor cameras could see who went in when the bank cameras went out."

Sherlock had been stunned; he struggled not to show it. A warm wave of affection overtook him; _what a truly excellent, brilliant person_ , he'd thought to himself. Her mind, skilled and sharp as a knife had cut through the situation and discovered the key clue in a matter of seconds by his absentminded, seemingly unrelated suggestion. Faster than even he'd thought of.

Of course Peggy took pleasure in eliciting this reaction from him, however subtle. Standing in the lazily misting rain, illuminated by streetlights that gave everything a hazy glow, she doubted that there was any place else she would rather be.

And no one else she'd rather be in the company of.

Not for the first time, he privately admired her intensely and that's when he opened his mouth and heard himself say, "We ought to get married," as she immediately found herself to be saying, "You and I should marry."

It was hasty, it was suddenly tumbling off of the tip of her tongue. Somewhere, tucked away deep inside of her mind and heart, she knew that saying it aloud was incredibly, most certainly _right_.

 _Steve_. Precious Steve, her first true love. He'd want this, she knew he would. He'd want her to be happy, more than anything else and with a tightness in her throat, she understands this completely.

Sherlock had stumbled out a quick explanation, still reeling himself. "We're already almost living together, isn't marriage the normal and logical course of action for two people with...romantic intent?"

"Well, naturally," Peggy had primly agreed. "And I believe that it is the logical and normal approach to this situation if you kissed me now."

"If that's the logical thing to do."

"Oh, most logical."

*****

Peggy never imagined that she was going to end up here.

In London, with him, living a life far more fulfilling that she ever hoped for.

Everything had been taken away from her, time and time again. Her future, her past, her love and her life. And now, through trial and error, she has a life, she has someone and most of all, she has her heart back. There's some scratches and scars on it but so does she, Peggy realises gradually. And so does Sherlock.

They're sharing the chair, her legs draped across his, arm around his shoulders as she turns the pages of the newspaper. "Oh look, they took our most anonymous tip and found the cat burglar."

"It would seem that the Yard is more apt to take a faceless suggestion," Sherlock comments, "We should do it more often. Make a hobby of it."

"Anonymous heroes of London. Ought to write a book about it." Peggy turns another page, her dark eyes skimming it swiftly. "We would be an excellent story, you and I."

"And how do you think the story would go?"

"Loss, love, crime, the works. A very basic premise." Her chest rises and falls with laughter and so does his. Growing a fraction more thoughtful and serious, she continues, "No, I think it would be about two people very much out of their time."

A smile, an agreement.

And a gaze that only the two of them are capable of sharing.

"Elementary, Miss Carter." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!  
> First of all, I want to apologise for taking so long to update this story. This past year has been a rollercoaster for me and I've found myself drawn to writing some other fics. I knew that I wanted to end this story, bring a conclusion to this particular adventure and I simply didn't know how until now.  
> This fic was my first and ending it is bringing me a lot of bittersweet emotions. Without this fic, I never would have become the writer that I am today. It helped me practice and expand my writing in ways I never thought possible before. Every chapter was a learning process, an experiment and ultimately, I'm always still learning! I'm still so invested in this story and who knows *shrug* maybe I'll write a sequel sometime!  
> ^ . ^  
> I'm really happy with how this ending has turned out. Thank you all so much for reading, supporting me and giving this fic far more love than it deserves. You all are so wonderful. Sending love and appreciation Xx


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